


On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves

by quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: (mild?) internalised homophobia, Accidental Voyeurism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Bugs & Insects, Camping, Coming Out, Food and Eating, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Littering, M/M, Music, Nudity, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Rain, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Sheep, Singing, Stereotypes, Summer 1972, Swearing, Thunderstorms, Wales, and there was only one tent!, into the wild, way too much talk about plumbing (or lack thereof), we're mostly operating low on maslow's hierarchy of needs here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: Freddie and Roger go camping.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 395
Kudos: 135





	1. Rain, Slate and Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of love and gratitude to [BisexualRoger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyperPluviophile/pseuds/BisexualRoger), who isn't only beta-reading and britpicking, but who has also cheered me on from the beginning and answered all my random UK related questions 💖🙏. Also, my fellow horsewomen who always have an open ear, inspiring stories and are brilliant at summaries. 
> 
> **Playlist** :  
> [Eddie Vedder - Tuolumne](https://youtu.be/RRTDrriPNVU)  
> [June Tabor - Bonny May](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOIA_LDDsvI)  
> [Queen - Drowse](https://youtu.be/JcXxYWEbBEE)  
> [Led Zeppelin - Going to California](https://youtu.be/7IZ-jATBq9A)  
> [The Who - Sparks](https://youtu.be/ah66Jji74Tk)  
> [Queen - Loser in the End](https://youtu.be/-IzXzHtvgE8)  
> [Boris Björn Bagger & Ain Varts - Greensleeves Variations](https://youtu.be/vVlnzEtPpxs)  
> [Mike Massé/Sterling Cottam - Scarborough Fair/Canticle](https://youtu.be/G9iVG4kg0sg)  
> [Loreena McKennitt - The Highwayman](https://youtu.be/9QgWvP3sRmI)  
> [Queen - In the Lap of the Gods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeBc-c1Yang)  
> [Loreena McKennitt - Dante’s Prayer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUHvj1cxOs0)  
> [Eddie Vedder & Neil Finn - Throw your Arms around me](https://youtu.be/rVTbzcV0zGI)
> 
> The story exists in draft form for the most part, so I'm hoping for (at least) weekly updates. As always, **mind the tags** and have fun. If you have questions about anything or just want to chat, say hello on [tumblr](https://quirkysubject.tumblr.com/).

#### Summer 1972

###### Day 1

Endless rolling hills and villages with odd names pass by outside the car window. _Onllwyn. Ynyswen. Craig-Y-Nos_

This at least is properly Welsh. Apart from that, it’s different from expected. Not that Freddie is entirely sure what he expected. More sheep, certainly, and an endless grey sky that never stops pouring down rain. Coal mines and slate quarries and scores of grim, gritty men who work in them, pausing only to break into a melancholic song from time to time.

Instead, it actually looks quite sunny and bright. There are small brooks glittering in the afternoon sun, pubs advertising local ales, and even the occasional stately manor converted into a posh hotel.

Freddie remains suspicious, though, as if the country is presenting its friendly face just to lure them into a trap. They’ve been driving along the winding country lane for what feels like hours, and with every minute, the queasy feeling in his stomach is growing heavier. At least it’s Brian driving instead of Roger, otherwise Freddie might not have been able to stand it.

Roger is sitting in the back with him. He is resting against the side of the van, his feet on the seat and his nose buried in a cheap sci-fi novel. How he can read at all in the jolting van is beyond Freddie. But he looks perfectly content, tapping out an irregular beat with his foot and occasionally taking a bite out of a sandwich, as if he isn’t at all worried that at the end of the drive, they are going to be marooned in the wilderness.

Freddie has to remind himself that this is what is going to happen (even though Roger would chide him for being overly dramatic). The idea sounds preposterous to his own ears. They are due back in the studio in less than a week. What on earth are they doing here?

What on earth is _he_ doing here?

Freddie doesn’t remember the details of how it all started. At the pub, certainly, as these things tend to do. Brian had told a woeful story about being made to go camping with his parents as a teenager, and then Roger had said something that implied a certain wimpishness on Brian’s part, and then Brian had said Roger wouldn’t even last one night in a tent, to which Roger had replied he’d last a week and still wouldn’t moan about as much as Brian and then Brian had said “It’s a bet” and ordered a round of whiskey.

So far, so normal for a Saturday night.

Usually, nothing ever comes of these things, but that night Brian had refused to let it go.  
Which still doesn’t explain what any of this has got to do with Freddie.

That’s in the bit that came next. And it played out like this:

> “Someone will have to keep tabs on Rog, make sure he doesn’t piss off to the next B&B with some bird and have a grand old time there,” Brian says. “I’d do it, but I absolutely promised Chrissie that the next time we get a break from recording, we’d get some ‘one-on-one time’…” He ignores Roger’s suggestive low whistle and turns to John.
> 
> In his ale-induced drowse, it takes John a moment or two to notice that Brian’s hopeful expression is on him, but then he jerks fully awake. “Oh yes, me too. With Ronnie, I mean. One-on-one time. Very important.” He nods exaggeratedly. He must be pissed beyond measure, as he’s usually a very convincing liar.
> 
> Brian looks miffed. “Hm. I’ll ask Ken then. Or perhaps…”
> 
> “I’ll do it.”
> 
> All eyes swivel to Freddie. Including his own, metaphorically speaking.
> 
> “You?” Roger looks two seconds away from breaking down with laughter.
> 
> “Why?” Brian looks suspicious. Like he can’t believe Freddie might just want to… enjoy nature in all its beauty.
> 
> Freddie straightens out a stubborn curl between his fingers, feverishly trying to come up with a reason. “Oh, you know. It’ll do me good to get out of the city for a while.” That’s what people say when they decide to go camping, isn’t it? He’s sure he heard that somewhere.
> 
> “Freddie, the last time you got out of the city you refused to leave the van because there was a bee outside.”
> 
> Oh, not this again. “It was a swarm of angry hornets.”
> 
> “It was one curious little bee.”
> 
> “It was definitely more than one, Bri”, John cuts in.
> 
> Freddie shudders at the memory “Absolutely ferocious, bloodthirsty little buggers who…”
> 
> “Alright,” Brian concedes, “so maybe there were _two_ friendly little…”
> 
> “Actually, they were wasps”, Roger says with all the authority of a man who napped his way through his mandatory entomology class and still passed with a decent grade.
> 
> “Yes”, Freddie shouts, pointing at Roger. “Wasps, that’s it. And they attacked Rog until he dropped his hamburger and ran to hide in the van too.”
> 
> “No.” Roger crosses his arms in front of his chest and glares at Freddie. “No. I left the burger on the table because it was horrible and chose to calmly return to the van because we had to get going anyway.”
> 
> “Hmm, with a very calm shriek,” John adds. “Very manly, too.”
> 
> Roger’s expression darkens even more. “You…”
> 
> “Hands flapping about, if I remember correctly.” Brian smirks as he waves his hands over his head, making small wailing noises.
> 
> Freddie reaches for the scruff of Roger’s shirt and pulls him back down onto his chair before he can strangle their friend and ruin the evening. “As I was saying, darling”, he cuts in, raising his voice a bit. “More than one curious little bee.”
> 
> Brian acknowledges him with a slight incline of the head. Freddie is not going to get any more than that.
> 
> “I’ll find those wasps and I’ll stuff ‘em down his stupid trousers”, Roger grumbles.
> 
> “There, there, dear.” Freddie tuts and slides Roger’s pint into his hand. He’s always so adorably excitable. “We’ll make sure to go to a place without wasps then. Who knows?” He puts his hands behind his head and leans back, stretching his torso a little. “I might even get some inspiration for a new song.”

So that’s what happened. But Freddie still doesn’t quite understand _why_ it happened. It’s not unusual for Roger to end up in ill-advised contests or dares (although he usually manages to talk himself out of them again before the night is over). But what the devil had got into Freddie to announce he’d come along?

London is all the inspiration he needs. In fact, he’s already got enough song ideas to fill two more albums. If only the others let him.

His eyes flicker back to Roger. He is yawing and rubs the bridge of his nose where his glasses have left little dents in the skin. Freddie suppresses a smile as he remembers how they had all but dragged him to the optometrist just a year ago. His nose would almost be touching the pages of his textbooks, but of course he’d never admit to needing glasses, the vain old thing. He only gave in when Brian had refused to let Roger drive the van if he didn’t have something done about it. In the end, Roger’s love for driving had trumped his pride.

Still, he only puts the glasses on when it’s absolutely necessary - for example to get his hands on the van keys - and only among his closest friends. That alone is enough to send a warm feeling of pride through Freddie whenever Roger puts them on. Not everyone is allowed to see him like that.

Although he doesn’t quite understand why Roger is so coy about it. The glasses are quite fetching on him, actually, giving him an air of a free-spirited scholar type. That one lecturer where all the prettiest girls crowd the front rows.

Roger looks up from his book and shoots Freddie a brief, slightly distracted smile. Freddie smiles back, trying not to look caught out, and trains his gaze back on the landscape flying by outside.

_And yet you pretend you don’t know exactly why you came here._

He tries to push the thought aside, as if thinking it would be enough to break that faint thread of possibility that sometimes seems to glitter in the air between them. The fantasies come nonetheless. Whispered secrets late in the night. Huddling together for warmth as they watch the sunset. Limbs tangling in the water. Just the two of them, far away from prying eyes.

Five days. That’s how long the bet runs, for the simple reason that they all have to be back in London after that. He’s never been alone with Roger that long, or anyone. There are always other people around. The thought is exciting, but also a bit frightening. What happens if there is no buffer between them? What if they run out of things to say?

Or worse, what if Freddie does something he can’t explain away? If he says something he can’t take back?

It’s a terrifying thought, but a thrilling one too. At least then he’d _know_ , instead of circling around in this exhausting state where every gesture, word and glance of Roger’s has to be fruitlessly examined and pored over again and again.

“Gotta turn left over there.”

Freddie is startled out of his musings by Deaky’s voice. Their bassist is in the co-driver’s seat, looking between the landscape and the map in his lap. He chose the place, telling them about how he used to come here as a kid with his dad, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Brian doesn’t seem keen to turn onto the narrow country lane, barely more than a dirt road.

John just throws him a look, and with a muttered “Alright then”, Brian turns left.

It’s not far after that. They park on a patch of gravel by the side of the road. To their left, a footpath leads out onto the moor. The place doesn’t look terribly inviting. Hadn’t John promised them a lake?

Brian opens the boot and lifts Freddie’s rucksack out of it with a groan. “Christ,” he grunts as he drops it to the ground. “Did you pack a portable recording studio?”

“John put most of that in,” Freddie defends himself. The rucksack itself is John's, too, a massive thing he’s inherited from his dad. It had already been mostly full when he brought it by Freddie’s flat an hour before Brian picked them all up. There had barely been room for his clothes, but John had straight up forbidden him to unpack any of the gear inside, insisting it was all necessary. It was only Roger’s and Brian’s arrival that had kept them from coming to blows.

Luggage starts to pile up between them as the boot gets emptied. Two large rucksacks, one for each of them, a duffel bag with Freddie’s clothes, a guitar case, and the vintage leather shoulder bag Roger has taken to carrying everywhere recently and that Freddie is not a little envious of.

Roger puts his hands on his hips and looks expectantly at John. “Right, so where shall we pitch the tent? Behind that hill over there? It should be a bit away from the road, I reckon.”

John and Brian exchange glances. Brian’s eyebrows disappear under the unruly strands falling into his face. “Haven’t you told them?”

“Told us what,” Freddie asks, although he doesn’t want to know the answer. That’s not the kind of question that has good answers.

John puts his hands on his hips. “Of course I have. More than once. Do you think they listen to me, ever?”

Freddie dimly remembers John trying to show him things on a map. It was all green with blue blobs and Freddie had quickly decided that as he wasn’t going to drive anyway, there was no need for him to fuss over the details. A feeling is creeping upon him that perhaps he should have paid some attention.

Roger crosses his arms over his chest. “What’s going on?”

“Uhm.” John clears his throat. “There’s a bit of a walk from here.”

“Yeah, you said,” Roger replies, eager to show how much of a good listener he is. “So?”

“More of a hike really. A short hike,” John hastens to assure them when he sees the outraged looks on their faces.

Brian is pressing his fist against his lips and looks down at the ground, the way he always does when he’s trying to hide a grin.

Freddie glares at John. “You never said anything about a hike!”

“I’m sure I did. Repeatedly. Your response was ‘yes, yes, darling' and then you wandered off to see what Jerry was doing because his tummy was upset or something.”

Brian is biting his lips and turning half away, as if he’s developed a sudden fascination with the trees on the other side of the street.

“How short,” Roger asks.

John mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“About two hours.”

Freddie tries not to panic. Or strangle John. Or cry.

“Two _hours_?” Roger looks between the pile of luggage on the ground and Freddie. “With _him_? Are you mental?” Before Freddie can properly take offence, Roger has whirled around towards Brian. “You knew about this?”

There’s no hiding the mirth on Brian’s face now. “Throwing in the towel, Rog? Because of a bit of walking?”

Roger’s eyes narrow. This could escalate quickly, but then Roger turns towards the footpath leading away from the street. “Can’t we just drive?”

“Yes,” Freddie chimes him. “Let’s do that! Excellent idea, darling.”

John snorts and looks pointedly at their old Ford Transit. “It’s a van, not an off-roader.”

Roger brushes that aside. “ _I_ could drive,” he says, as if his capabilities somehow transformed any vehicle into either a sleek sports car or a jeep, depending on the situation.

“This is a nature reserve.” The way Brian says it makes it clear that Roger would have to pry the key from his cold dead hands.

“Ohh, this is a nature reserve,” Roger repeats in a stuffy, mocking tone sure to bring any situation that much closer to a fist fight.

“I don’t see what’s funny about that,” Brian shoots back.

“You’re the one who seems to think this is funny!”

“Oh yes, now that I think about it… It _is_ quite funny.” Brian smiles brightly, safe in the knowledge that whatever happens, he isn’t going to be the one hauling two tons of luggage through the Welsh countryside.

Because as if it weren’t enough that Freddie and Roger are to be sent into the wild to fend for survival, Brian and John have decided to have a grand old time at a nearby beach resort with their girlfriends. _One-on-one time._

Roger’s nostrils are flaring. “You bloody…”

“We can’t take the van,” John says matter-of-factly. “There’s a river about a mile from here with only a narrow stone bridge across it."

Roger glares at John as if he diverted the river and built the bridge by hand just to thwart his plans.

“Look, it’s right here on the map…”

“Oh, get away from me.” Roger throws up his hands and stalks off, anger radiating out of every pore.

“You know,” Brian starts carefully after they all have stood around awkwardly for a while, “you can always just come along to Barry Island with us. We’ll have a great time there.”

Roger doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t tell Brian to go fuck himself either.

Hope wars with apprehension in Freddie’s chest. He doesn’t want to go on a hike. He especially doesn’t want to go on a hike in Wales only to spend the next four nights sleeping on the floor in a tent and possibly freezing to death. He knows that if he throws around his weight now - making a big fuss about how he can’t possibly carry the weight of his pack, or suggesting all manner of outrageous activities they might get up to at the Beach resort - it might tip the scales. But the little voice inside him that made him say “I’ll go” in the pub, the one that is holding out a hopeless hope for _something_ , fears letting the opportunity of a lifetime slipping away. So he stays silent.

Brian steps close to Roger and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” he says in a conciliatory tone. “Buy me a pint, and we’ll forget about the whole thing, yeah?”

For a moment, Freddie thinks Roger might take the olive branch Brian has offered him. But then Roger’s expression hardens. He picks up his rucksack, almost toppling over from the momentum as he swings it onto his back. “A bet’s a bet,” he says, flailing for balance. “And it’s just a hike. Nothing to it. John, how do we get there?”

And thus it is decided.

This time, John is allowed to show Roger the map. Freddie has a look too, but he’s having a hard time focussing on what John is saying. His eyes keep straying back to the path leading out onto the moor. A cloud has moved in front of the sun now, casting a shadow over the landscape. It looks a lot less inviting than it had been from the car.

“It’s really simple”, John says. “Just follow the path, and then turn left right here.” He taps the spot on the map.

Roger nods, a determined look on his face.

John folds up the map and presses it into his hands. “You can’t miss it.”


	2. Into the Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @bisexualroger for the speedy beta and britpick! 💖

Freddie is going to murder John. And he’s going to take his sweet time about it. In fact, he’s going to make it last exactly as long as this twice-round-the-world-trip is taking them, namely to the last syllable of recorded time. Nay, to the last bloody _letter_. 

_You can’t miss it._

They got to the river and the stone bridge, which was so picturesque that Freddie got out his camera and snapped a picture, holding it out at arm’s length to get both their faces into view. It would be the last time any of them smiled for a long time, because from there, it had all gone downhill.

The duffel and the rucksack seem to be getting heavier by the minute, the straps digging painfully into his shoulders. The leather cowboy boots that had appeared properly rugged and outdoorsy to him when he selected them, are punishing his feet with every step. Still, he’s probably better off than Roger, whose pack is even bigger and heavier than Freddie’s and who can’t even see where he is going, because the guitar case he has strapped to his chest is blocking most of his view. Perhaps Freddie should have offered to carry it some of the time, but he’s not sure he’d have managed to move forward at all. 

Besides, Roger and him aren’t currently on speaking terms, due to a brief but passionate altercation over who is to blame for their current situation. Because the thing is-

There is a snap of wood behind him, a muffled cry and the rumble of several heavy things tumbling to the ground. 

“Bollocks fuck bugger damn it all to hell _fuck!_!” 

They are the first words Roger has uttered in an hour. 

Freddie turns, swaying slightly under the weight of his rucksack, to find Roger struggling to sit up, half buried under his load. Freddie reaches out his hand, automatically. “Here, let me.”

Roger ignores it, keeping his gaze stubbornly fixed on the ground. 

Freddie retracts his hand and huffs out a breath, turning away. Fine. Be like that. It’s not Freddie’s problem. 

The thing is - he continues his inner monologue while Roger scrambles to get back on his feet - that the problems had started with a wrong turn, which may or may not have been Freddie’s fault (details are lost in the haze of time, which is not surprising, given that they have been walking since the late Middle Ages). But it only got truly awful when they attempted a shortcut to save them from having to circle back, which was _definitely_ Roger’s fault (“For fuck’s sake, no, I will not walk the whole bloody way back! If we just cut through the woods over there, we’re bound to hit upon the path again sooner or later.”)

And so they have found themselves in a forest, which - according to the map and John’s description - shouldn’t even be here. And it’s getting dark. Not just from the sun slowly sinking below the horizon, but also because of the heavy cloud cover that has been building steadily and is blocking out the last rays of light. 

“Fuck this,” Roger hisses, leaning against a tree and breathing heavily. “I’m just.” He’s shaking out his hands, which must have borne the brunt of his fall, and there is moss and small twigs everywhere on his clothes and in his hair. 

At the sight, Freddie’s irritation melts away. “Are you alright, darling,” he asks, struggling to keep himself from plucking the dirt off of Roger like a fussy grandmother. 

“Yeah.” Roger grimaces. “But I’m so fucking done with this.” He smiles grimly. “How about we stop this nonsense and go for a cold one at the pub instead?” 

Freddie doesn’t even particularly like beer, but right then, he’d have given his favourite jacket for a lager. If it hadn’t meant trekking back the entire way they came and another two miles down the road, he’d have agreed in a heartbeat. 

“We must be almost there,” he says instead, going on nothing else than the fact that his legs will give out otherwise, so it must be true. 

Roger shoots him a dark look. “You said the same thing two hours ago.”

“Yes, well, that was before _you_ insisted we leave the footpath and then…”

“Stop it.” Roger raises his hands, clearly nearing the end of his tether. “Please just stop. Let's not do this again.” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s struggling to keep it together. 

Freddie sighs, looking around the darkening forest and the barely recognizable path leading through the thick underbrush. “It could be worse,” he offers helplessly. He doesn’t know what else to do. Usually it’s Roger who keeps them going, who barges ahead and yells at everyone to keep up. 

Roger shakes his head. “It’s getting dark, my spine is about to snap in half, and we have no idea where we are.” He looks straight at Freddie, holding out his hands, palms up. “How could it _possibly_ be worse?”

Before he can come up with a suitable answer - wolves, witches, Welshmen, anything that would make Roger laugh - a raindrop lands on Freddie’s cheek. 

~~~

Water splashes in all directions as Roger’s rucksack hits the ground, staking their sad claim on the land.

It’s a miserable place. Wet, slippery grass, a muddy lakefront, wind whipping down from the hills, driving the rain in front of it. But it might just be the spot John marked for them on the map and even if it isn’t, there is no way Freddie can take even just another step. 

His arms are trembling as he lowers his rucksack to the ground, trying to find a spot where the water hasn’t collected in a big puddle. 

At some point, when they were headed uphill and he could barely put one foot in front of the other, Roger had wordlessly taken the duffel bag from him, trotting along in front of him like an overburdened pack animal. Still, Freddie feels feverish from the effort, even while his skin is icy cold, frozen from the rain and the wind. He wraps his arms around himself, trying to control his chattering teeth. 

For heaven’s sake, when he fretted about freezing to death, it was meant to be hyperbole.

A hand lands on his arm. It’s just as cold and wet as he is, but it doesn’t fail to send a spark of warmth through him. 

“Christ, you’re freezing,” Roger mumbles, looking pale and weary in the moonlight, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He bends down to his pack. “Let me get you a jacket.”

“No, l-leave it. It’ll only get wet t-too,” Freddie stammers. 

Roger hesitates a moment, but then he nods. It’s not like they have oilskins with them, and nothing else would help in this deluge. “Let’s get the tent pitched then,” he says and digs into Freddie’s pack. 

What follows is one of the most miserable hours of Freddie’s life, one he wishes he could cover with the dark veil of forgetfulness. There’s a bewildering array of poles, pegs, rope and canvas sheets to deal with. It’s all packed up neatly, but after five minutes of their combined meddling, all rhyme and reason is lost. The canvas fabric gets heavier as it becomes waterlogged, and more than once it’s ripped out of Freddie’s hands by a strong gust of wind and hits him straight in the face. His fingers are stiff and clammy and all but useless as he tries to tie all the right parts together in the light of a torch he’s holding between his teeth. 

Eventually, he gives up and confines himself to providing the lighting while Roger sorts out the actual construction. His friend has gone grim and quiet, and Freddie misses his earlier solicitousness as if it’s a warm, dry blanket, shielding him from the worst of the rain. 

But at least he is efficient like this, and one bruised thumb and a dozen muttered curses later, they have erected something resembling a tent. It’s a bit worrying that there are three poles and a mysterious set of screws left over, but they both wordlessly agree to ignore that for now and hope for the best.

They pull their luggage underneath the awning and crawl inside the tent. It takes some wriggling to get their shoes off while the most part of their bodies is already inside. Soaked layers of clothing follow, and for once Freddie is too exhausted, too focused on just putting on something warm and dry, to feel the familiar spark of excitement that usually accompanies undressing next to Roger, which is both a blessing and a curse of shared dressing rooms.

It gets crowded quickly as they each dig through their packs to find clothes, air mattresses and sleeping bags. They tie one torch to a flap hanging down from the ceiling (which is so low that anything other than a crouch is impossible) so they have some light. 

Freddie ends up on the left side of the tent, Roger on the right, and a wall of clutter builds up between them. He tries to rub some feeling back into his swollen, ice-cold feet, but quickly stops when he realises the only sensation that returns is a painful bout of pins and needles.

“Fuck my life.”

Freddie agrees wholeheartedly with that sentiment, but when he looks up at Roger, his expression tells him that he isn’t just commenting on the situation in general. “What?” 

Roger holds up the sleeping bag he’s just pulled from its sack. It’s an old one of Chrissie's (all their gear is borrowed from various friends), and it doesn’t look half as fluffy as Freddie’s. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that when Roger takes it in both his hands and squeezes, drops of water drip onto his mattress. It must have seeped into his rucksack as it laid on the ground outside. 

Roger throws up his hands and lets them drop weakly into his lap, as if he doesn’t even have it in him to throw a proper fit. 

“I’m sorry, dear,” Freddie replies automatically, even as a tingle starts to run down his spine, because there is one obvious solution to this problem where one friend has a thin, wet sleeping bag and the other a dry and fluffy one. The one situation where Freddie is not just allowed to curl up against Roger body, but morally obliged to. He takes a few seconds to make sure his voice and expression and general demeanour is completely nonchalant. 

Just as he opens his mouth to offer up his sleeping bag for sharing, Roger speaks up. “Well, I’ll figure something out. Let’s see about dinner. I’m starving.” 

And then he’s so busy digging out cans and putting together all the parts of a camping stove that Freddie doesn’t know how to bring it up. 

Later. He’ll make the offer later, when their nerves are soothed from a warm meal and the rain pattering against the canvas starts to feel cosy instead of threatening. 

~~~

Unfortunately, “later” the atmosphere inside the tent is approaching absolute zero. Dinner consisted of cold beans and flabby toast, because the camping stove proved to be so temperamental that Roger’s sodden sleeping bag turned out to be a blessing in disguise. If the flame had reached Freddie’s, they'd have ended up inside a bonfire. 

At least then they’d have been warm, if only momentarily. 

Freddie rubs his feet together. His sleeping bag isn’t too bad, but somehow it’s impossible to get any warmth to return to his fingers and toes. Again, the thought of inviting Roger in appears in his mind, but the order of the hour seems to be passing back and forth a bottle of Southern Comfort over the Big Wall between their mattresses in sullen silence. It’s the only booze they have because of the weight issues involved, and supposedly it’s Roger’s iron reserve for desperate times. 

It’s probably not a good sign they hit that on the first night. 

The whiskey does nothing to improve their mood, but at least it brings some warmth to Freddie’s limbs, even if it’s not the kind of warmth he craves. But perhaps it will bring him the courage he needs to ask for that, too.

Just when the bottle is half-empty and Freddie has almost worked up the nerve to offer up his sleeping bag again, Roger reaches up and flicks off the torch hanging from the ceiling. “‘night Fred,” he grumbles. “‘m bloody knackered.” Then there’s a long series of small grunts and rustling noises as Roger tries to get comfortable. 

Freddie settles in as well, feeling hollow and deflated. He’s exhausted, but strangely not tired. He has no idea what time it is - it might be hours before midnight or close to dawn. The previous afternoon stretches out endless in his mind, making John and Brian and the van, London, seem so far away. And although Roger is right next to him, he feels miles away, too. 

Everything is far away. Everything is strange. The noises of the rain and wind outside. The musty smell of the old tent, of John’s borrowed sleeping bag. The ridges of the air mattress underneath him and the cold air on his face. 

He longs to talk to Roger. He doesn’t think they’ve ever been alone together for that long, yet speaking so little. Freddie can hear him tossing and turning, sniffling now and then, and even the occasional chatter of teeth. Not sleeping either. 

He should just ask. It’s what he’d do in a heartbeat if he were here with John, or Brian. He wouldn’t even think twice about it. It’s the right thing to do, the _practical_ thing to do. And it’s not as if Roger ever shies away from sharing sofas and beds as easily as they do clothes, or from touching him in general. (In fact, sometimes it seems as if his hand lingers a little longer than necessary, or as if the sloppy drunk peck on the cheek is a little closer to Freddie’s neck or mouth than it is with his other friends.) 

Even with the whiskey inside him, it takes the last of his energy to work up the resolve. And when the words finally come out of his mouth, the words he should have just said hours ago instead of making a fuss about it and turning them into this big _thing_ , it’s in a whispered rush. Like a shameful, dirty proposition. 

“We can share my sleeping bag.” 

The words hang in the cold air of the tent like a heavy rain cloud. Freddie’s heart is beating in his throat as he waits for Roger’s reaction. 

But there is none. Not a laugh, or a growled ‘fuck off’, or an annoyed ‘what are you on about?’ 

No ‘yes please’ either.

Nothing. 

Perhaps he hasn’t heard, what with the wind and the rain, the rustling of his sleeping bag and the chatter of his teeth.

Freddie turns onto his side, so his back is to Roger, as if he could lessen the impact of the rejection by rejecting him right back. He closes his eyes and waits for sleep to come and end this horrible day. 

Perhaps Roger just hasn’t heard.


	3. Odi et Amo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to @bisexualroger for the beta and britpick! 💖
> 
> Chapter title from [Catullus 85](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Translation:Catullus_85).

###### Day 2

Last night, Freddie would have said that there is nothing worse than lying in a clammy sleeping bag, feeling like he’ll never be warm again in his life. Now he realises that it’s much worse to be nestled up perfectly comfortable, but being forced to head out into the cold or risk the imminent explosion of his bladder. 

He holds out as long as he can, then reluctantly peels himself out of his cocoon. He feels around for the next best piece of clothing (only selection criteria: warm and dry; dear Lord, it’s not even been twenty-four hours and already he’s turned into a brute), which turns out to be a monstrous brown knitted thing that Roger must have kept hidden from him. But it is better than facing the cold only in his pyjamas, so he slips it on and pretends that the deep inhale he takes is just a yawn and not so he can get a whiff of its scent. 

Silently, because Roger is still sleeping on the other side of the tent, he crawls towards the exit. He finds his boots under the awning, but they’re completely wet, and just the thought of putting them on again makes his feet hurt. 

So he steps outside, barefoot and shivering. Mist is hanging over the landscape, making everything feel wet and grey, but at least it has stopped raining. He stretches out his arms above his head, listening to his joints creak. Every single muscle feels sore. As does his head. 

After he’s taken care of business, he trudges back to the tent, wet grass squeaking under his feet. What he really, _really_ wants right now - excepting his cats and his bed and his records and everything else out of reach - is a nice, hot cup of tea. But then he remembers last night’s almost-conflagration and that fantasy is dispelled as quickly as it’s come. He should just shuffle back into his sleeping bag and doze a bit until Roger wakes up. He’s better with these things. 

As Freddie is about to slip back into the tent, he catches sight of Roger. Well, of his hair and the tip of his nose. The rest of him is not only wrapped up in his sleeping bag, but buried under an entire mountain of clothes. He must have piled everything he brought along with him on top of himself in an effort to keep warm.

While Freddie was sleeping snug as a bug in his (eventually) warm, and dry sleeping bag. 

Roger also carried Freddie’s duffle bag without a word of complaint. And built the tent, lopsided as it is, almost single-handedly. And then he’s shared his iron reserve of whiskey that he carried all the way. 

Pulling his horrible cardigan a little tighter around himself, Freddie reaches for the camping stove. 

It turns out that when the thing is operated in daylight and out of reach of flammable materials, it’s not all that difficult. There’s a small, yellowed instruction manual with pictures even. Soon, Freddie is crouched in front of a small pot of water, watching it start to simmer as a faint smell of gas hangs in the air. It’s oddly satisfying. An echo of what primordial man might have felt after he brought down the mammoth. 

Groans and rustling from inside the tent tell Freddie that Roger is waking up. He urges the water to heat quicker, because the whole idea is to wake Roger with a perfectly brewed cup of tea, and it’s going to spoil the surprise if he wakes up before Freddie is done.

But then Roger sticks his head out of his entrance, shaggy-haired and bleary-eyed. It takes him a few moments of blinking and squinting to take in what he’s seeing. “What are you doing,” he asks, as if that weren’t obvious.

“Making tea,” Freddie says, suddenly feeling defensive. 

Roger stares at him a moment longer. “I love you,” he mumbles in a small voice, before retreating back into the tent.

Although Roger can’t see him, Freddie still turns his head away to hide his blush. It doesn’t mean anything. Roger shares his affections as easily as his grievances. It’s far from the first time he’s said it. But right now, for the first time since they left London, Freddie feels like he’s done something right. 

Perhaps this trip doesn’t have to be a journey through purgatory after all. 

Well, of course not, he thinks to himself with a grim smile as he pours the tea into a thermos. Purgatory is supposed to be warm. He laces the tea generously with milk and sugar, more generously than he usually would, and heads back into the tent. 

It tastes better than any tea ever has, and not just because of the indecent little moan that Roger lets out after the first sip. It’s hot and sweet, chasing away the lingering cold of the morning mist and warming him inside and out. And then Roger gives him a dopey little grin through the steam rising from his mug, as if he’s happy that Freddie is there. As if he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. 

They don’t talk much as they enjoy their cuppas, but it’s not the brooding, miserable silence of yesterday. It’s companionate, punctured by shared smiles and brief bouts of small talk. 

Once he’s finished with his tea, Roger changes into fresh clothes while Freddie tries not to watch out of the corner of his eye. Not that this is in any way new. They shared a room long enough to have seen each other in all states of undress. Somehow, Freddie even survived those taxing weeks when Roger’s hippie friend convinced him that sleeping in the buff would be beneficial to his energies. Luckily, a cold-spell and an unpaid heating bill quickly put an end to that. And also - as Roger confided in him a bit later in the middle of a bender - he preferred not to get his bollocks all tangled up in the blankets while he slept. 

Freddie settles back on his mattress, wrapping the sleeping bag around himself and picks up his sketchbook to distract himself from the sight. He lets the pencil dance over the page, just trying out lines and shades to see what shapes might emerge. He cocks his head and peers at the page. A bird perhaps?

“Got the loo paper?”

“Hm?” He adds a bit of texture to a darker part of what might or might not be a beak. 

“Toilet paper,” Roger repeats a little louder. “Gotta head out, you know?”

Freddie wrinkles his nose. And they say romance is dead. “Don’t know,” he says, trying to concentrate on the fine lines of his pencil instead of the base practicalities of life in the wilderness. 

“How d’you mean you don’t know?” 

Something in Roger’s voice makes him lower the notebook. “ _I_ don’t have it,” he says, slowly raising his eyes to meet Roger’s gaze, a horrible if vague realisation dawning. 

“How d’you mean you… _You_ are in charge of toiletries!”

Freddie digs for his sponge bag, waving it in the air like a shield to defend himself with. “I did! Look, toothpaste, soap, hair gel, it’s all there!”

“Oh, thank God we’ve got hair gel! What _ever_ would we have done out here without hair gel!”

As if Roger doesn’t spend an hour every day fussing over his hair. “You didn’t say anything about toilet paper!”

“What did you think we’d use, just shear a stray sheep whenever the need arises?” 

Freddie gapes at him, trying to come up with a response. “I…”

“It’s right there in the word! _Toilet_ ries!” Roger scolds as he crawls out of the tent, fuming and shaking his head in utter disappointment. Then he sticks his head back in. “How can you be so fucking useless?” he shouts. 

_I’ve made tea_ , Freddie wants to say, but before he can collect his words, Roger has disappeared for good, leaving Freddie to seethe all by himself. 

Roger had liked the tea. That wasn’t useless. He’s not always usel- 

Roger is being very unfair. 

Freddie gathers his sleeping bag around himself more tightly. 

As if Roger always thinks of everything. Very prone to forgetting things, Roger is. And Freddie doesn’t harp on about it when he does. 

Alright he did that one time when Roger forgot to turn off the hob and the flat almost burnt down. And when he didn’t return the jacket he borrowed from Freddie in time for the concert.

But he’s blowing this way out of proportion. 

And he really shouldn’t shout at Freddie like this. 

By the time Roger returns - which takes long enough that Freddie would be growing concerned _if_ he weren’t cross with Roger and didn’t care if he got ravaged by an angry bear - Freddie has burrowed into his corner and buried his nose deep into the paperback Mary has given him. He’s been trying to read it for months. He can’t say he’s too sure what is happening or that he can tell most of the characters apart, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least look as if he’s soaking up every last word. 

He doesn’t pay _any_ attention to Roger, who is rustling around their supplies. 

At least he’s not shouting any more. 

Freddie belatedly remembers to turn a page. He stares at the text in front of him. Who the hell is Miss Lucas?

“Sorry.” 

Freddie pretends he hasn’t heard even while a pleasant tingle spreads through his body. 

“I, er, overreacted a bit there.” A soggy lump of toast, dripping with jam, is shoved under Freddie's nose. 

Freddie blinks up and - mostly out of sheer surprise - takes the toast. 

“I didn’t exactly have a great night”, Roger says. 

No, he doesn’t look like he did. There’s a greyish tinge to his skin and his eyes are rimmed with red. Freddie gives him a haughty nod, pursing his lips slightly to hide any trace of a pleased smile, and Roger retreats to his side of the tent. 

He gives the peace offering a cautious nibble. The toast is pretty horrible, in that it’s not even toasted. Is there a way to use a camping stove as a toaster? John might be able to think something up. 

Because John isn’t _useless_. He grimaces and finishes up the toast. Don’t dwell on it. 

His belly gurgles a bit, and he realises that at some point the toilet paper question might become personally relevant to him too. “So,” he says and clears his throat. “How did it go?”

“Oh, fantastic!” Roger flashes him a blinding smile and gives him a thumbs up. “Best crap of the week so far. Got spied on by a pervy badger though. Thanks for taking an interest, mate.”

Freddie rolls his eyes. It’s not like he wants the gory details. “I meant how did you deal with the lack of toilet paper? And please don’t say ‘the badger had it coming’,” he adds quickly when he sees the expression on Roger’s face, “or I’ll set your sleeping bag on fire, my dear.”

Roger scoffs and prods the sodden thing. “Good luck with that,” he says. 

“So,” Freddie prompts again.

“Oh right,” Roger says when he realises Freddie’s still waiting for an answer and jerks his thumb in the direction of the awning. “Just nicked your scarf.”

He says it so nonchalantly that Freddie panics for a second. He took two scarves along and both are his favourites and if Roger’s defiled them he’s going to set his sleeping bag on fire _with Roger in it_!

“Ah, keep your knickers on, Fred.” Roger snickers. “I just washed in the stream. Cold as fuck, but…” He sniffs and puts on a rather adorable face that Freddie assumes is supposed to look tough. “It’s alright.”

Freddie sighs inwardly. It is more hygienic, he supposes. But more cold water really doesn’t sound very appealing. He eyes the packets of sliced bread and canned soup warily. It’s not like the food is any good. Perhaps he should just stick to tea for the time being. 

They spend some more time in the tent, reading or - in Roger’s case dozing - in amiable silence. It’s actually not that uncomfortable, once the chill of the early morning has passed. After a while, Freddie can take off the sleeping bag he had draped around his shoulders and use it as a huge pillow to snuggle into. 

Actually, it’s getting rather toasty. 

As he looks up from his book, it’s just in time with the tent brightening up as it’s hit by a beam of sunlight. It makes the interior look golden and Roger’s hair glint like polished bronze. He must have been stirred from his nap by the sudden brightness, because he soon kicks away the towel he’s been using as a makeshift blanket and stretches his arms over his head with a big, happy yawn. Freddie’s gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to the sliver of skin bared between his low-riding jeans and the rumpled cotton of his shirt. He allows his gaze to linger, just for a moment, on glowing skin that looks soft like down. 

He knows it feels just a tiny bit rougher than it looks, he’s had his hand there often enough: slung around Roger’s waist when they were propping each other up after a night out or celebrating a moment of triumph. And it’s not Freddie’s fault if sometimes Roger wears shirts that are a little bit too short, that leave a gap of just about a finger’s breadth or two, that would make it impossible _not_ to trace over that smooth skin, despite his innocent intentions. (And that other time, those few precious seconds when Roger seemed to welcome a less innocent touch, a shared breath in the dead of the night, over as quickly and confusingly as it had begun.)

Freddie turns his attention back to his book while Roger sits up and works the zip of the tent open. With a lot of rustling and a muffled curse, he makes his way outside. Moments later there is a low whistle and a whoop. 

Freddie drops the book into his lap. Oh, God. Roger has not just espied a bonny maiden tending the sheep in the fold, has he? 

If anyone would, it’s Roger. Images of being made to go for long walks while Roger entertains his most recent conquest flicker before his mind’s eye. Well, he can forget about that. Freddie’s feet still hurt, and he’s not going to take one step more than necessary. And he’s got a right to stay in the tent for as long as he wishes, and he’s certainly not going to-

Roger’s head appears in the opening of the tent, the smile on his face so bright it stops every thought in Freddie’s mind in its tracks. “Come on out,” he says and taps Freddie’s calf excitedly. “It’s stunning!”

Freddie hums and haws a bit, because he’s still miffed that Roger wants to send him away just so he can… well, he doesn’t actually have anything to be miffed about, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make Roger ask him twice. That’s always nice. He likes it when he does that. 

“Come _on_ , you old slugabed!” 

Finally, after a lot of hemming and hawing, Freddie allows himself to be persuaded and crawls out of the tent. 

The view that greets him is stunning. The sun is standing high over the hills, shining bright in a brilliant blue sky. The air is filled with the buzzing of bumblebees while butterflies are dancing over the blooming heather. The lake that had looked so grey and forbidding when they arrived is now a glittering disc reflecting the sunlight. Not twenty yards away, a clear brook winding its way down from the hills flows into it. 

It’s a beautiful spot. For the first time, Freddie has a glimpse of understanding why someone would voluntarily forego the comforts of civilisation to come here. 

The air is still cool enough that he has to put on the cardigan again, but he can already tell that it’s going to be a hot afternoon. 

Roger’s taken off his shoes and socks and is wading around the shore of the lake. 

“Planning to go for a swim?” Freddie calls out.

Roger shakes his head. “Nah, it’s bloody freezing.” He steps out of the water, picks up his shoes and makes his way back to Freddie, a smug grin on his face. “Got a better idea.” 

~~~

“This is the life,” Roger says philosophically as he looks after the trail of smoke he’s just breathed out. 

They’re stretched out on Freddie’s sleeping bag, which they’ve unfolded like a blanket and put down on a meadow a good distance from the tent. It’s fragrant with wildflowers in bloom and Freddie’s fingers are itching to weave them into wreaths - red poppies for him, and blue cornflowers for Roger. Very Midsummer Night’s Dream. But that would be horrendously foppish, wouldn’t it? Later perhaps, when they’re both worn out by the sun blazing down on them and can blame any silliness on that.

With a deep, contented sigh, Roger holds the spliff out to Freddie. 

And on the pot, of course. 

Freddie doesn’t like it usually, it makes him feel dizzy and distracted, but still he takes it, rolling it between his fingers for a moment. It’s nice, sharing this, so he takes a small puff and just holds the sweet tasting smoke in his mouth, imagining a trace of Roger clinging to his lips. 

He might not like to partake himself, but he loves it for the times when Roger does. It makes him go all soft and lovely, taking off some of his rougher edges and replacing them with a cuddly kind of affection. He’ll link fingers with his friends, lie his head on their shoulders, hug them at the slightest sign that they might need it. 

And Freddie always needs it. It’s not that he’s taking advantage in _that_ way. But if maybe at those times he allows a bit more sadness to shine through, hints at some inner turmoil that he usually keeps safely locked away, would that really be so bad? Roger _enjoys_ comforting him, after all, as if he needs an outlet for all that warmth and affection inside him, and Freddie is only too happy to let it wash over him and fill the cracks in his soul.

But now it’s not even necessary. He positions himself just so - a bit lower and at an angle to Roger - making it easy for him to let his hand drift to the strands of Freddie’s hair. He’s self-conscious about the fact that it hasn’t been washed today and the rain from yesterday left it impossibly unruly. But Roger seems to enjoy teasing the tangles apart and letting the strands curl around his fingers. He’s going to look like Brian if Roger keeps on like that, but it feels too good to stop him - sweet tingles running down his scalp and into his body.

He knows that Roger wishes his own hair weren’t so “lanky and boring” as he calls it (and Freddie is forbidden on punishment of a painful death to ever speak of the time when Roger experimented with his girlfriend’s curlers, which had become completely tangled up in his hair, and then Freddie had spent an hour freeing the strands again). Freddie thinks that Roger should learn to count his blessings. 

After a while, Freddie picks up his sketchbook and a pencil, mainly so he’ll have something to occupy his hands. He fills in some details on a design he's been working on for a while. It's not quite how he wants it yet, but it's coming along.

"Why star signs," Roger asks.

Freddie turns his head and sees Roger peering at the page.

"Seems fitting," Freddie replies with a shrug.

"You don't really believe in all that rot, do you?"

Freddie purses his lips. "What a Leo thing to say. Ouch, careful." Roger's fingers have caught on a tangle.

"Don't poke the lion," Roger says and then lifts one corner of his lips in a snarl and makes a little growling noise and Freddie wants to die. _Why, you might ask? I don't know but I feel it and I am in torment._

"Brian can be crabby though, I give you that," Roger goes on, oblivious of the turmoil he's causing. "But John's not like me at all. And you... what are you again? The pixies?"

Freddie makes a face at Roger. As if he doesn't know that there are no pixies in the Zodiac. "Virgo," he replies primly. "Fussy, intense, perfectionist." And ruled by Mercury, but he doesn't add that because he believes in it a bit and doesn't want Roger to make fun of it. "Prudent and determined," he says instead.

"Hm, what was that? Determined prudes?" Roger giggles. 

Freddie scoffs. As lovely as Roger is when he's stoned, his sense of humour takes an absolute nosedive. But he's gone back to fiddling with Freddie's hair, so that's alright.

Roger taps Freddie's leg with his bare toes. "Had a mate at school who got so up in arms when we teased him about it. 'Look, here comes the virgin', sort of thing. Which of course only meant more teasing. Lectured us all on the superiority of the Chinese signs where he was a dragon or some shit." He takes another deep puff. "But then, it's all just made up anyway, innit?"

Freddie, who's been distracted by the bliss of Roger's toes on his skin and his fingers in his hair, blinks up at him. "Hm? Star signs? I suppose. But maths is all made up too, and that doesn’t-”

Roger snorts with laughter. “Don’t let Brimi hear you.” 

“ _But_ that doesn't mean it's not true," Freddie continues, a bit sharply.

Roger is slowly coming down from his own hilarity. "Yeah, but I meant the other thing. You know, virgins and all that."

"Ah," Freddie says. What?

"Like, a girl tossed me off when I was barely fifteen. Didn't get any further for a couple of months. Was I still a virgin during that time?"

"Huh," Freddie says, determinedly not thinking about Roger getting a handjob.

"Jill said she still was, even after I had my fingers up inside her for an hour at least. Said it didn't count. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Not that I told her that, mind. But if you think about it..."

This conversation has taken a wild turn and Freddie's not sure how long he can hold on to this runaway train. "I think... well, _technically_ I assume..."

"Right, yeah,” Roger agrees, as if Freddie had actually contributed anything to the discussion. “It's all just definitions. All made up, as I said."

"It's not _all_ made up,” Freddie says, finally having pried his stubborn imagination away from the image of Roger's pretty hands pleasuring his girlfriend. "There is a difference between someone who’s, who’s done it all and someone who hasn’t.”

“Ah, but what is ‘all’,” Roger asks. “Because if you think about it, there’s a lot more you can do beyond just, you know, plain old fucking.” 

“Like. Like what,” Freddie asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as faint as he feels. Is Roger trying to talk to him about what he thinks he’s talking about? Why on earth would he do that, when they’re out here, all alone, with no one around for miles? (And his toes pressing into Freddie’s calf and his hand stroking through Freddie’s hair.) Except it might just be the pot talking and the boredom and Roger’s inquisitive, open mind following whatever tangent he’s picked up on. 

The joint - barely more than a stub by now - is handed back to him, and this time, Freddie inhales deeply. 

“So what about you then,” Roger asks, either not having heard or already moved on from Freddie’s question. 

“What about me?”

“When did you technically, er, leave your assigned star sign?”

“Seventeen,” he says matter-of-factly. “My first proper girlfriend before we moved to England.” 

There’s a pause just as long as it takes to draw and release a breath. “And non-technically?”

His head is spinning, if from the conversation or the sun or the hit of the joint he can’t say. Roger is asking him something they’ve never talked about, not like that. And Freddie could answer ‘She gave me a handjob three weeks earlier’ and it wouldn’t be a lie. 

“He was at my school,” he says. Nothing more. 

Roger’s fingers pause minutely before he goes back to stroking. “Was that… good?” he asks finally. 

Freddie nods, knowing Roger can feel the movement. 

And as if that is the only thing that matters, the conversation is ended. Roger doesn’t ask any more questions, so Freddie doesn’t have the excuse (the burden?) to say anything more. But Freddie wouldn’t have known how to answer them anyway so that is alright. He can’t talk about it with the sort of carefree levity a glorious summer’s day like this requires. Too much else is tangled up in these memories. 

But Roger doesn’t ask, because now he knows what he must have suspected all along.

And he doesn’t take away his toes, and he doesn’t stop the gentle petting of Freddie’s hair as they lie together among the wildflowers in bloom.


	4. Native Wildlife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks to @bisexualroger for beta-reading and britpicking! 
> 
> Also, thanks to everyone who commented and kudoed! I really appreciate it! 💖

Roger’s fingers, so gentle in his hair in wordless acceptance. The golden afternoon sun warming every cell in his body. The scent of fragrant wildflowers surrounding them. 

If there is such a thing as peace on earth, this must be-

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ ”

Freddie yelps as Roger leaps up as if stung by an adder. “What on earth,” he mumbles as he sits up, scrambling to understand what has got into his friend. 

“Tick, I got a fucking tick, it’s on me, it’s _in_ me, ugh, I hate them!”

Roger is making odd, jerky movements as if he is hoping he can shake the tick off without actually touching it. 

“Alright, calm down, dear, it’s not…”

“I _hate_ them!” 

It’s not that Freddie loves them, but surely Roger is overreacting. “If you’d just stand still for a moment we can try to get it off.”

Roger scrunches up his nose, but then he holds out his leg to Freddie, arms crossed in front of his chest. 

Freddie takes his foot in his hands and inspects it. There’s a tiny, black dot right behind his ankle. Roger wobbles, standing on one leg, and reaches out to stabilise himself on Freddie’s shoulder. “It would be easier if you sat down.”

“I am not sitting down on that tick-infested blanket! Just get it out!”

Freddie struggles to grasp the tiny tick with his fingernails. “I’ve got pincers in my sponge bag, it would be easier if-”

“ _Get it out!_ ” There’s an edge of hysteria to Roger’s voice. A sharp comment regarding Roger’s ruggedness rises to Freddie’s lips, but he swallows it down. For now. Roger has made fun of his fear of spiders often enough, lecturing him about how they’re harmless and small and nothing to be afraid of as if Freddie didn’t know that. 

But right now, it looks as if it’s all Roger can do to hold himself still like that. Freddie tries to imagine what it would be like if spiders could silently latch on to his skin while he was sleeping. He barely suppresses a shudder. 

Finally, he gets a hold of the tick and pulls it out cleanly. A tiny drop of blood wells up from Roger’s skin and Freddie clamps down on the sudden urge to press his lips to it. _Kiss it better_. Creepy. Stop it. “There,” he says and holds up his hand. “All gone.” 

Immediately, Roger pulls his foot out of Freddie’s grasp and - under a steady litany of curses - marches off to the area before the tent, where there is moss and bare ground instead of high grass. 

Freddie squashes the bug between his fingernails, then picks up the sleeping bag with a sigh and goes to follow Roger. When he looks back at him, his mouth goes slack.

Roger has lost his clothes on the way. _All_ his clothes. 

It’s one thing to catch a glimpse in the darkness of the tent or the couple of seconds it takes to get dressed backstage. A completely naked Roger Taylor, standing in the brilliant sunshine and not even attempting to preserve his modesty is a totally, completely, utterly different matter.

For a moment, Freddie is convinced that he’s still fast asleep, trapped in a bizarre, pot-induced dream. The embarrassing kind of dream. But the sun stinging in his eyes and the small stones digging into the soles of his feet are too real for a mere dream. 

He stands there, frozen and completely at a loss for what to do while Roger frantically inspects every inch of his skin.

(This includes some important inches that Freddie had been both curious and completely mistaken about for an embarrassingly long time, not that he’s ever going to admit that. 

The thing is, when he first met Roger, he had a _reputation_ , one that he proved true at every opportunity. Freddie had never seen anyone juggle several girlfriends of varying degrees of commitment with such aplomb. And they didn’t even seem to mind. 

Now, the reason for this - as was determined by their wider circle of acquaintances - clearly had to be Roger’s epically proportioned member. Freddie had found that theory plausible enough and hadn’t questioned it despite the fact that his own generous endowment never translated into the same kind of effortless panache. 

When he finally got a glance at the fabled beast, he couldn’t deny his disappointment. It was quite pretty and perfectly proportionate to Roger’s body, but it didn’t look like something that should bring dazed smiles (and ecstatic moans) to the lips of the girls he liked to bring home. It left Freddie puzzled for quite a while, until he overheard Denise and Jo complaining about how blokes with big knobs all too often _are_ big knobs with no idea how to use them. He’d also seen (observed, studied, beheld) Roger making a girl bodily drag him off to the bathroom at a party just by whispering in her ear and running his fingers along the hem of her skirt for five minutes (five minutes that Freddie only got through with copious amounts of Vodka). And she didn’t look in any way disappointed when they returned. 

Of course, what _exactly_ it is Roger does to make up for his lack in the size department remains a mystery. A nagging, intractable, alluring mystery.) 

“Can you do my back?” 

“Your, er.” Freddie does his level best to look like he hasn’t been standing there, contemplating Roger’s cock for five blessed minutes.

Roger’s bending and twisting to get a look at his flanks and the backs of his arms. “Yeah, I can _feel_ them creeping up my spine.” He grimaces and squirms as he rubs his hands over the back of his neck. 

Freddie steps closer, feeling a bit numb. Roger turns so his back is to him and holds up his hair with both hands. Snippets from his classes flit through Freddie’s mind. The two models of male beauty - Hercules and Ganymed, the strong man and the slim youth. It’s clear where Roger falls with his narrow shoulders and slightly chubby cheeks. There’s invisible strength underneath, Freddie knows that, but Roger never developed the wiry muscle definition that would make him a good anatomical model. 

“So?” Roger looks back at him over his shoulder, vibrating with impatience. 

Right. Roger isn’t standing there just so Freddie can ogle him. With a stern internal admonishment, Freddie steps closer and goes to work. He keeps as much distance between them as he can, not touching the skin at all. It seems important that Roger doesn’t get the wrong impression - it’s not like Freddie asked for this, or lured him into a tick infested meadow on purpose _\- although you did imagine scenarios just like these when you got here, didn’t you? Enforced closeness and accidental nudity, where you couldn’t help touch him? Where he had to hold you close just to keep you warm and safe?_ \- but then, despite Freddie’s earlier confession, Roger doesn’t seem self-conscious at all. 

And he doesn’t ever want that to change, so he tries to imagine that this naked man standing in front of him, whose skin is glowing golden in the sun and fragrant from the summer heat, is a stranger, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to give him an elbow to the teeth if he stepped out of line. He keeps his touch to a minimum, except to run a fingertip over a suspicious black spot close to the spine, which turns out to be a speck of dirt. 

Of course, his whole mental distancing act crumbles to dust as he crouches down to inspect the… the lower parts. What’s the name of that ancient king who angered the gods? Who had to spend eternity thirsting and starving, surrounded by wine and the sweetest fruit that are forever out of reach? Now that he’s kneeling with Roger’s pert bum just inches from his face, Freddie knows exactly what the poor man must have felt. Except he would happily, stupidly _choose_ that eternal torment if given the chance. 

The thought of running his tongue in a long stripe up Roger’s slim thigh is making his head spin. 

Ticks. He’s here to search for ticks, nothing more. He forces his eyes away and does a quick check of the back of Roger’s calves, which are just as lovely and tick-free as the rest of him. Of course - the thought flashes through his body as sudden and violent as the first stroke of lightning on a summer’s day - if he _pretended_ he’d found something he’d be allowed to…

“All done”, he says and lightly taps the side of Roger’s knee, sitting back on his heels. 

“Thanks, mate.” Roger breathes a sigh of relief as he turns around.

Luckily, he takes a small step away at the same time, because that increase in distance is the only thing that keeps Freddie sane as he is treated to a glorious bit of full-frontal nudity. Freddie should get up right now, but he’s not sure how stable his legs are and the last thing he wants - no, the last the thing he _needs_ , because he wants it so very much his teeth hurt with it - is to stumble and fall right into Roger’s arms. 

This trip was the stupidest, most ill-advised thing Freddie has ever done. 

And Roger doesn’t even seem to _notice_. He just absent-mindedly ruffles a hand through his hair and smiles a bit sheepishly. “Yeah, really hate those blood-suckers.” Then his eyes grow wide. “Oh blast, I should do you, too.”

The sudden rush of adrenaline gives Freddie the strength to scramble to his feet. He shakes his head and raises his arms to ward Roger off, who’s already reaching for him with his usual enthusiasm. “It’s fine,” he says. It’s not fine. “Ticks don’t really go for me. No sweet blood, my mum likes to say. I’m not sure that’s actually how it works, but it’s true, I’ve never had...” He trails off, realising he’s babbling. 

Roger looks at him a moment longer. “Well, if you’re sure.”

Freddie knows he’s going to spend the entire evening (and night, and a big portion of the next week, possibly his life) daydreaming about how exactly it would have been to have Roger inspect every inch of his body. Where it might have led if he had said yes. 

“Quite sure, darling,” he says and takes another step away from his _still completely naked_ friend. 

“Right then.” Roger jerks his thumb in the direction of the lake. “Time for a dip. Wash that crawly feeling off.” 

With that, he takes off for the lake. Seconds later, delighted yelps echo over the landscape.

A swim does sound good. After the heat of the sun and the. Everything. 

Freddie turns to the tent, determined. 

But certainly not without his trunks. 

~~~

The sun is just setting low beyond the horizon, painting the scattered clouds in shades of orange and purple. The heat of the day is lightened by a breeze coming down from the hillside. Freddie stretches out on the sleeping bag they have spread out on the remnants of the old berth leading into the water, while Roger thrums through the middle section of Sparks for the third time. He’s not a gifted guitarist, not like Brian, but better than Freddie (as he will admit in the privacy of his own thoughts, if nowhere else), and his battered acoustic guitar is just right for an evening like this.

“I have to say,” Freddie says and lets his arm dangle off the side of the berth. His fingertips just about dip into the water. “I’m not quite sure how to give your irrational fear of ticks a tough, manly twist.” Roger doesn’t pause in his strumming. “When I tell the story to Bri and Deaky, I mean.”

“I’ll chop you up with a wood axe if you breathe a word of it,” Roger says sweetly and changes back to d-major. “How’s that for tough, hm?”

“I’m not saying you squealed. It was just… sort of in that range.” Freddie lifts his hand and watches the drops of water hanging from his fingertips, glinting in the last rays of the sun. “Play Greensleeves, will you, dear?”

“Did you know that technically, ticks count as spiders?” Roger plays the section yet again from the top, with a slightly changed rhythm. 

“You’re lying.”

Roger grins. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Cost me some points in my taxonomy exam, so there’s no chance I’ll forget.” He shakes his head, frowns at the guitar and repeats the last phrase. 

“Working on something?”

“Hmm, maybe. But it’s not...” He breaks off, plays it again, a little more syncopated, and Freddie can hear the beginnings of a headbanger. 

“What’s it about?” 

“Rock’n’Roll.” Roger gives him a cheeky grin. “Thought I might start it off with a drum solo.” 

Freddie can’t help but smile back. “Did you now?”

Roger sighs. “It’s not quite there yet. Haven’t even started on the lyrics. It’ll take me ages.” 

“The next album then,” Freddie suggests. 

“Yeah.” Roger smiles at that. It’s one thing Freddie likes about Roger so much, that he never says slow down, or don’t get ahead yourself. They don’t even have the first album finished, but there is no question in their minds that a second album, with new, fresh material, is going to follow it. Roger stops playing. “I don’t know how you do it, cranking them out like that.”

He’s hardly cranking out anything. For every divine spark of inspiration, there are countless fruitless hours at the piano and mountains of crumpled up lyrics that go straight to the bin. “Not everyone can be a genius,” he condescends finally. “Play Greensleeves.”

“Want me to get you in the mood for more ditties about fairies and dragons?” Roger teases him, but he obediently starts playing a variation of the age-old tune. 

“I’ve never written anything about dragons,” Freddie protests, but with little vehemence behind it. 

Roger raises his eyebrows at him. _“Dragon’s fly like sparrows thru' the air…”_ he sings, a little incongruously with the tune from his guitar. 

Freddie rolls onto his side, propping up his head on his hand. Roger looks good like this, relaxed and idly strumming his guitar. His hair is a mess after his swim and there’s more than just a hint of sunburn on his face. But it only makes Freddie want to tease the strands apart with his fingers and perhaps dab a bit of cooling ointment on his nose. “I didn’t know you knew my lyrics off by heart,” Freddie teases. “I’m flattered, darling.”

“I only listened to you repeat them five thousand times when we were recording. Impossible not to pick them up.” He bats away a mosquito, then seamlessly picks up the melody again. 

“Brian manages.” He’s only half-invested in the conversation, because watching Roger’s fingers pluck on the guitar strings is such a lovely sight. He’s playing a slightly fancier version than the one Freddie knows - little variations and ornamentations added to the melody. Perhaps Freddie could ask if he’d teach it to him. Perhaps Freddie could appear a little rustier than he actually is, so that Roger will have to reach over and adjust his fingering, putting his smaller hands over Freddie’s on the guitar to show him how…

It takes him a few moments to realise that the melody Roger is playing has changed. Something wistful in E-minor and D. It’s halting at first, as he has to stop and correct himself a couple of times, but then it gets more flowing. “D’you remember,” Roger asks. 

Freddie smiles. _“She once was a true love of mine,”_ he sings as the memories come back. It is astounding how something can get buried at the back of your mind, only to return crystal clear at the right prompt.

> They haven’t been living long at Ferry Road, only a couple of weeks. Long enough to become acquainted, not so long that they have spent many nights together like this. They are alone in a flat that usually crawls with people and have decided - for some reason lost to the mists of time - that they’d sing this song together. 
> 
> A truly horrendous red wine is involved, and lots of starting and restarting the record to figure out the harmonies and chords. Freddie tries to recreate the tinkling effects with glasses and cutlery, and they get derailed by an hour-long argument on whether they should sing it with Simon and Garfunkel’s American inflection (“It’s an _English_ song, Freddie.” “A _rrr_ e you going to Sca _r_ borough Fai _rrr_...” “You sound like a bloody pirate, knock it off!”). 
> 
> The end result isn’t too bad, Freddie thinks. But by the time they are finished, it’s three in the morning, and they are both plastered, so who knows what it really sounds like. There’s wine splattered all over the sofa and Freddie’s hoarse the next two days, but it’s the best night Freddie’s had in a long time. 
> 
> And from then on, it’s not “Freddie, my roommate”, but “my friend Freddie”. 

Roger catches his eye and smiles back. “Can you…”

Freddie nods and sits up. “Yes,” he says although he’s not sure he does. 

_“Tell her to make me a cambric shirt... “_ Roger starts, and Freddie comes in on the counterpoint, _“On the side of a green in the deep forest hill.”_

Half a beat too late and surely that text can’t be right, but Roger waves off his apologetic grimace with a quick shake of his head. The harmonies on _“Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme”_ aren’t quite right either, but then, Roger messes up his guitar work every so often because he swats away another bug. 

They get better, verse for verse, Roger’s being allowed to take over the lead voice for once, while Freddie provides the harmonies below. It’s terribly soppy, singing that old song of love and mourning while the first stars appear in the sky above him. But Freddie revels in it, soaks it up until his heart feels so full it’s about to burst.

They finish the last chorus together, and Freddie settles back to enjoy the last bars of the guitar outro. But instead of that, Roger stops abruptly and starts swatting at himself. 

“Bloody bloodsucking bastards,” he curses.

For a moment Freddie fears a repeat of the tick-episode from the afternoon, but the distinct humming sound in the air makes it clear that this is something different. Roger scratches at his wrist, then holds it up to Freddie’s face. In the fading light he's just able to make out the red and swollen spots. 

“Four bites just on my wrist alone,” Roger whines, and then quickly slaps his thigh to defend himself against another attack. “Why are they all on _me_?” 

Freddie shrugs. “Told you. Ticks, mosquitoes… they just don’t have a taste for me.”

“Well aren’t you lucky,” Roger grumbles and shakes himself like a dog. There’s a veritable swarm surrounding him now. 

“Perhaps if we…” 

Roger is moving. He’s picked up the edge of the sleeping bag they’re sitting on and pulling it up around himself, almost dislodging Freddie into the lake in his haste to cover himself in it head to foot. Freddie doesn’t have it in him to be cross with him though, beleaguered as he is. 

Freddie is kneeling next to this pathetic huddle that is his best friend and tries to think of a way to help him. As much as he hates for the evening to end so quickly, they probably should just return to the tent. Perhaps there’s something in their first-aid kit that they can put on the bites. Perhaps Freddie will be allowed to put it on the bites. 

“Get the repellent”, Roger orders from under his protective cover. 

“Right.” Freddie gets up. “Where is it?”

In the silence that follows, Freddie can hear his stomach dropping. It’s too much like this morning. 

The edge of the sleeping bag is lowered and two hateful eyes stare at him. “How do you mean, ‘where is it’?” Roger is speaking slowly, voice level. It’s the exact same tone he uses before he marches out of the studio, announcing he’s quit the band for good this time. 

But there’s another note in his voice, a tiny wobble that Freddie hasn’t heard before. It’s the genuine horror of a mosquito-magnet at the thought of having to serve as a buffet for a horde of flying mini-vampires for the rest of the night. 

“I’ll get it,” he says in his most confident voice and walks over to the tent. Perhaps, by some magic accident, there is some in some bag somewhere, forgotten by John after his last camping trip. 

Of course there isn’t. However, what he does have, is a bottle of mouthwash. 

“Yes, the eucalyptus helps,” he explains only a tad over-enthusiastically as Roger desperately slathers it on himself. “We used it all the time in India!” he lies shamelessly, “works much better than that nasty chemical stuff.” 

Miraculously, the onslaught of the mosquitoes does recede a little. Or perhaps they’ve just had their fill. But the mood has been killed for good and it’s not very relaxing to be sitting next to someone who keeps slapping themselves every five seconds. 

“Right,” Roger says. “I’m gonna turn in.”

Freddie follows him to the tent. It’s dark enough that they have to use their torches now. Roger crouches down to crawl inside the tent, but then stops in his tracks. “Freddie,” he says, and his voice is that of a broken man. “When you went to look for the spray. Did you, by any chance, forget to close the tent behind you?” 

“I…” Protestations are useless - he’s been the last back here, and they both know it. “I’m really sorry.” He is. Truly, helplessly sorry. 

Roger doesn’t rant and rave and call Freddie useless. He just wordlessly crawls inside the mosquito-filled tent and into his own sleeping bag. 

Freddie spends the rest of the evening murdering mosquitoes by torchlight, occasionally presenting his kills as peace offerings. “Got another one,” Freddie chirps, dangling a particularly big mosquito over Roger. “This one’s a right whopper!”

But it’s no use. Roger lies silently in his sleeping bag, the only sign of life his intermittent bouts of frantic scratching at his bites. 

When Freddie finally flicks off the torch and lies down as well, he feels drained. Despite all its promise, this day is ending just as it has begun - with Freddie cocking things up and Roger being mad at him. It’s not that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s doing his best, he really is. Between the two of them, they even managed to cook up a decent dinner! And it’s not his fault that bugs are as magnetically attracted to Roger as everything else. But it feels as if every time things are looking up, every time there’s some real connection between them, he’s only allowed to enjoy it for a minute before everything goes to hell. It’s almost as if nature herself is trying to thwart his unnatural desires. Perhaps he should be grateful. 

He sighs and rolls onto his side. Whatever happens, he cannot let this horrible adventure destroy the friendship he has with Roger. Never that. 

Tomorrow is going to be different, he promises himself. Tomorrow, he’s going to make up for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no sheep! Damn, I'm such a tease...
> 
> Searching your partner for ticks is actually a recommended practice, especially when hiking in areas with a high risk for Lyme disease and Tick-borne encephalitis. Also, there is anecdotal evidence that eucalyptus might have some repellent effect against mosquitoes. So, the guys win some points for oudoorsiness here.


	5. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Tikini. Thank you for letting me use your story 💖
> 
> Thank you @bisexualroger for beta-reading and sharing highwayman-videos with me!
> 
> The poetry quoted is from [Alfred Noyes - The Highwayman](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43187/the-highwayman). (Brilliantly set to music by [Loreena McKennitt](https://youtu.be/9QgWvP3sRmI))

Night has fallen.

It’s pitch black inside the tent. The last stray mosquitos have quieted down and the only sound is Roger’s soft snoring.

No.

That’s not the only sound.

There’s a rustling outside. The wind whispering through the grass. _(A torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.)_

But wind doesn’t whisper just in one particular place, does it? And not that close to the tent?

In an instant, Freddie is wide awake, his heart pounding in his throat.

Someone - _something_ \- is out there.

A bear, Freddie’s terrified imagination screeches. No, no, it can’t be bear, there are no bears in Wales, don’t be ridiculous. But perhaps one escaped from a zoo or a travelling circus. That happens sometimes. Wasn’t there something in the news about that? Or an escaped criminal?

_(And the highwayman came riding—Riding—riding—)_

As he lies frozen in his sleeping bag, snippets of that old poem he hasn't thought about since sixth form play on a loop in his head. On some level, in the back of his mind, Freddie knows this isn’t real. But here, in the depth of the night, all alone in the wilderness, it _feels_ real and that trumps everything else.

Images of a knife slicing through the canvas, metal glinting in the moonlight, ready to plunge into his, into Roger’s helpless body, flash through him and his stomach turns to ice.

“Roger,” he whispers soundlessly. The rustling has shifted to the foot end of the tent. “Roger”, he hisses, daring a little bit of volume this time.

The rustling stops. Freddie’s heart misses a beat.

Roger's snoring continues undisturbed.

Freddie lies stiff as a poker in his sleeping bag, trying not to make even the tiniest noise. _(...and died in the darkness there.)_ If that maniac out there knows that Freddie knows he’s there, he might attack them. Or he might be scared off. Anything could happen.

The rustling picks up again.

They’ve got some of their bags outside. Perhaps whoever’s out there is just looking for something to eat? Or for their wallets?

He tries to wake Roger up telepathically, though sheer force of will, but of course the bastard doesn’t notice Freddie’s despair. They could be seconds away from bloody death, and he’s just lying there, sleeping innocently like a baby. Perhaps he could poke him, but Freddie knows what Roger is like when he’s woken up from deep sleep – he flails and curses and is completely useless for at least two or three minutes.

No. This is on him.

With painstaking slowness, he frees one arm from his sleeping bag and feels around the tent. _(She stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years.)_

His paperback novel. A comb. Something sticky he doesn’t even want to try and identify (jam drippings, probably).

Then his hand lands on the leather sheath where he keeps his drawing pencils. Thank God it is closed with a leather cord rather than a zip. He opens it, and then his fingers close around his pen knife. _(The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!)_ It’s small and flimsy, made for sharpening pencils and charcoal rather than fending off bloodthirsty rogues in the middle of the night.

Still, he feels a little bit better with it in his hand.

He can just about make out the pale shadow of Roger's face, and his resolve hardens. No one is going to put a hand on Roger without going through him first.

He uses the rustling of the wind as cover to crawl ever so slowly towards the entrance. Every time there’s a gust, he creeps forward another precious few inches. Sweat is running down his temples despite the cold that has fallen during the night. _(She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.)_

Muscles shivering with tension, he inches forwards until he’s crouched right at the entrance of the tent. He can feel the other’s presence outside, separated only by a thin sheet of canvas. He knows he can’t be slow, because the sound of the zip will be loud no matter what. So he’s got to be fast.

Hyper-aware of every sound, every root digging into his knees, he reaches for the tent flap.

_Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath—_

Clasping the knife so tightly the metal edge of the handle is digging into his skin, he pulls himself up onto his knees and tears at the zip at the same time.

A mad, bloodshot eye is staring right at him.

Blood spurts.

Freddie's scream shatters the moonlight.

~~~

“You’d have been frightened too,” Freddie says.

Roger silently adjusts the beam of the torch before he picks up the gauze again.

“If you hadn’t been sleeping like a log,” he adds with a sniff.

Roger pretends he hasn’t heard the complaint and dabs away the fresh blood that has welled up on Freddie’s arm, pressing a pad of gauze against it.

“A little help really would have been appreciated, you know.”

“It was a sheep, Freddie!” Roger almost drops the gauze as he goes into a full-body expression of consternation.

Freddie rolls his eyes. It’s all Roger has been saying for the last five minutes.

“Yes, dear, but - ouch!”

“Sorry.” Roger’s thunderous expression softens for a moment. “Here, press down on that for a second.”

Freddie takes over while Roger unwraps a bandage. “All I’m saying is that this could have happened to anyone and that-”

“Oh really? Do you _really_ think anyone else would have worked himself up into such a state because a _sheep_ \- a woollen, fleecy, herbivore - was grazing outside?”

“I didn’t know it was a sheep!” Freddie exclaims as Roger wraps the first layer around his wrist. “I thought it was a- a- wolf or a murderous maniac coming for us. I was trying to protect us.”

“Freddie,” Roger says and his voice is low and serious now, “You almost stabbed me.”

A shiver runs through Freddie as he recalls the frenzied confused seconds after he’d opened the tent, when the sheep got tangled in the rope fixtures as it tried to get away from the madman that had suddenly appeared on it’s grazing ground, and Roger was flailing to free himself from his sleeping bag while Freddie screamed bloody murder.

But really, he had been far from stabbing Roger. Mostly because he’d already dropped the knife at that point. He sniffs. “Lucky for you, I am the only one who got stabbed.”

Roger pauses his efforts to bandage Freddie’s arm and gives him A Look. “Oh, you _got_ stabbed, did you? What mysterious, unnamed forces did such a horrible thing?”

“It was an accident,” Freddie grumbles.

Roger tucks the end of the bandage in and admires his handiwork for a moment. “Feel alright,” he asks. “No numbness in your fingers or anything?”

Freddie wriggles his fingers. “No, it feels good, darling.” Then, after a beat, he adds a small. “Thank you.”

Roger busies himself cramming their first aid supplies back into the small bag. “I’m just happy it’s only a scrape,” he mumbles. “When I found you bleeding and screaming like a banshee I thought that...” He pauses for a moment and shakes his head.

“What did you think,” Freddie asks, tilting his head and waiting for Roger’s answer. They’re sitting opposite each other, huddled close under the small cone of light of the torch.

Roger thinks for a moment, his lips twisting, like he’s testing out words. He picks up another wrapped bandage and twirls it in his fingers. So dexterous. He looks up at Freddie from under his lashes and for a moment Freddie forgets to breathe.

He yelps as the bandage hits his shoulder. “I thought you’re the biggest twit I’ve ever had the displeasure of shacking up with,” Roger barks with a cross expression.

“So this is the thanks I get for guarding us from calamity,” Freddie shoots back, chucking the bandage back in Roger’s direction. “I’ll remember that next time.”

“From a sheep, Freddie, you guarded us from a sheep!” But this time, he barely makes it to the end of the sentence before his mouth twists in a grin. “A bloody sheep, Fred.”

“It was a very big, wild sheep.” Freddie tries to keep his serious attitude up, but at Roger’s disbelieving expression he can barely hold back a giggle, and when Roger joins in, he doesn’t even try to hold back.

It has been the most ridiculous night.

“I’m just happy you didn’t stab it,” Roger says after the last chuckles have faded.

“Might have been someone’s favourite,” Freddie adds.

Roger hums in agreement. “We _are_ in Wales after all.” After one last shared smile, he switches off the torch and settles back into his sleeping bag with a sigh.

Freddie’s dreams are wild that night, full of murderous sheep and knives turning into flowers. And Roger clad in skin tight doe-skin breeches with a bunch of lace at his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheep!


	6. The Hike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you my lovely beta and britpicker, @bisexualroger! 💖

Freddie stares at the cheese-and-pickle sandwich Roger has offered him. The cheese is not even melting, it’s disintegrating. He takes a tentative bite. A warm piece of gherkin, slimy with a coating of runny butter, assaults his tongue. 

Perhaps it hasn’t been the best idea to store their provisions inside the tent on this absolutely sweltering day. They'd put Roger’s sleeping bag on top of it to provide a bit of shade, but that had only helped so much. The milk has already gone off beyond saving. 

Employing all his willpower, Freddie swallows the bite down as quickly as he can without chewing. Then he puts the sandwich aside under the pretence of having something to drink. “Delicious, darling,” he chirps, the very picture of a good-natured camping companion. No fussing, no complaining. 

Roger gives him a pleased smile. It’s amazing how easy it is to make him happy. He also doesn’t seem to have the slightest problem with the sandwich, going by the rate he’s wolfing it down. 

Perhaps Freddie can scrape the filling off when Roger’s not looking and just eat the bread. God, how he longs for something as simple as an apple. They haven’t taken any, on account of fresh produce being too heavy. It’s sensible, given that if their rucksacks had been an ounce heavier, they never would have made it here. But wouldn’t that be nice right now… juicy and fresh and not at all like melted plastic. 

He picks up the sandwich and wanders off, ostensibly to dip his feet into the lake, but actually to make sure any fish and other sea creatures will be getting a fine English luncheon. The flapjack he’s opting for instead is tasteless and has the consistency of gravel, but at least it’s not slimy and disgusting.

Roger joins him a couple of minutes later. “Ah, this is nice,” he sighs as the water splashes around his ankles. The hem of his linen trousers is getting soaked as he hasn’t bothered to roll them up. Combined with his battered straw hat, he looks a bit like a Huckleberry Finn type character. 

“It is,” Freddie agrees, tamping down his culinary complaints, and looks over the glittering surface of the lake. After a couple of minutes, Roger gets twitchy, an unmistakable sign that he’s bored. “Care to go for a swim?” Freddie asks. It’s perhaps a tad euphemistic to call what they do ‘swimming’. Lounging about in chest deep water and occasionally getting into fights is more like it. 

Roger shakes his head. “If my shoulders see any more sun today, they’ll have to name a new shade of red after me,” he says with a wince. He turns towards Freddie, looking at him from under the brim of his hat. “Let’s go for a hike!”

“A hike,” Freddie repeats flatly as Roger splashes out of the water. 

“Yeah. Just a short one up the hill. I bet you have an amazing view from up there.”

Freddie really doesn’t understand people’s obsession with views. The lake is a perfectly lovely view. The lake with Roger in it, even if it’s a lobsteresque version, is even better. But climbing mountains or high buildings just to… look at the scenery? No, thank you. That’s what postcards are for. 

Besides, his feet are still a bit sore from that ‘short hike’ on the first day. He’s really not looking forward to putting on his boots again. “Or we could play a game of cards,” he calls out after Roger. 

“We’ve been doing that all morning!”

“A different game then. Rummy, perhaps, or Crazy Eights.” He claps his hands enthusiastically. “Or we could work on our songs!”

Roger scrunches up his nose. “Nah. I need to move a bit.” He’s towelling off his feet and putting on socks now. It looks like he’s serious about the hike. “You can stay here,” Roger says. “Make sure our abode doesn’t get ravaged by mad sheep or something,” he adds with a wink.

Freddie is torn. On the one hand, he really doesn’t want to go on another hike, ever, in this life or the next. But then he imagines himself sitting around here, all alone, waiting for Roger to return. 

It’s not that he’s scared of sheep. Or anything bad happening, really. It’s just that he would have no idea when Roger would come back. Roger, after all, can turn a short trip to the chemist’s into an afternoon filling shopping spree, followed by a quick one at the pub, only to end up going home with someone else. And the idea of having naught but the wind in the trees and his own thoughts for company as the night comes down is deeply unsettling.

Roger ties up his shoes, then gets up and slings his bag over his shoulder. “I should be back in an hour or so,” he says and turns in the direction of the hill. 

“Wait!” Freddie exclaims when Roger has taken all of ten steps. 

Roger stops in his tracks, turning around towards him with an expectant look on his face. 

_Stay_ , is what Freddie wants to say. _Please don’t leave me alone_. “Just give me one second, darling,” is what comes out of his mouth. “I’ll be right along.” 

~~~

Climbing up a steep slope in thirty degree heat has to be the stupidest idea of this entire trip. Apart from this entire trip, of course. 

Freddie is stumbling in his fashionable boots, trailing after Roger, and only sheer determination keeps him going. His clothes are sticking to his skin in a most disgusting manner, not just with sweat, but also from the humidity that is saturating the air.

The only thing that makes this torture a little worthwhile is that he can hear Roger wheezing - all those cigarettes taking a toll on him, Freddie notes with petty satisfaction. That, and the way his white shirt is turning translucent where it sticks to his back. It’s a good distraction from the way Freddie’s own thighs are burning: it’s almost meditative to watch the fine muscles and bones shift with every step and swing of his arms. 

“Ah, fuck me,” Roger pants, and stops so abruptly Freddie almost runs into him. 

It’s only then that Freddie realises they have reached the crest of the hill. The view, however, is completely underwhelming. There’s a bit of a haze in the air that blurs everything in the distance, and a bump in the side of the hill blocks their view of the tent and the lake. 

Freddie wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, biting back a “I told you so.”

Roger digs in his shoulder bag until he finds the bottle of water he brought along. Freddie is too dazed from the heat and the climb to train his eyes away from him as he gulps it down, the muscles in his neck moving with every swallow. 

“Here.” Roger pushes the bottle at Freddie, who looks away belatedly, heat flushing his already burning cheeks. He takes the bottle, more to smooth over his embarrassment than anything else, and realises it’s half-empty already. “Go on,” Roger says with an encouraging nod. “We can fill it up in the stream over there.”

The side of the hill that runs down to their left has a much gentler slope than the one they came up, and is lightly studded with trees. At the bottom, Freddie can just make out the glitter of water running along the valley. “Do you really want to go all the way down there?”

He had hoped that now that the view turned out to be a let down, they’d just turn around and head back down. He takes a few sips of the water, and only then realises how thirsty he actually is. 

“I certainly didn’t climb up here for nothing,” Roger says. “It looks lovely, doesn’t it, with all that shade from the trees? Come on.” He nudges Freddie and stows the bottle away again. “Just down to the brook, and then we can turn around if you like.”

And so they head down. It _is_ nice in the shade and because there is a proper path winding down, Freddie has an easier time walking in his boots. Down at the stream, it’s positively bucolic. Birds are chirping excitedly all around them and there is a light breeze in the air. The sunlight falling through the trees dapples the ground and fills the air with a glowing golden-green light. 

As they cool their feet in the shallow water, chatting about all and nothing, Freddie feels light in the way he hasn’t for a long time. It’s so easy like this. Just the two of them, locked away in their own little magical world. 

“Where do you think that stream leads to?” he asks. 

“Dunno. Its spring, I suppose.” Roger looks at him from under the brim of his hat. “Wanna find out?”

And to his utter surprise, Freddie finds that he does. 

They slowly make their way up the softly rising valley, sometimes walking in the brook itself, sometimes on the water’s edge. They have their trousers rolled up, and when Roger takes off his shirt (permitted, now that they’re out of the sun) Freddie follows suit. They end up in a playful competition about who finds the prettiest, most glittering stone - and who can make the biggest splash when each one is inevitably discarded back into the water again. 

Freddie has no idea how long they have been walking when the trees stop and they emerge into an open field. The wind has picked up, moving the tall grass in waves. And while the sun is still shining down brightly, a wall of clouds is building up behind it, giving everything a yellowish tinge. All of a sudden, their enchanted little valley has taken on a much more sinister look. Freddie shivers as a cool gust of wind hits his sweaty skin. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Roger says, just in time with an ominous rumble in the distance. 

“We should head back,” Freddie agrees, quietly slipping on his shirt. 

This time, they don’t waste time on games. They put on their boots and hurry their way back down the way they came. Roger’s hat is getting blown off by the strengthening wind until he takes it off with a curse and crams it in his bag. The rocks and roots that were playfully sidestepped before are now tripping them up, and when they have to cross the stream at times, the water running into his boots feels harsh and cold instead of refreshing. 

And for some reason, the way seems to take them at least twice as long. 

“Do you think we’ve missed the crossing,” Freddie calls out to Roger, who is jogging a few paces ahead. 

“Can’t have,” Roger says. “The path leads right down to the water, we’d have noticed if we’d crossed it.”

It’s true, but Freddie has a bad feeling as they keep marching at breakneck speed. Those trees don’t look familiar at all, they’re so much darker and denser than on the way there. And did they really come across this sharp s-curve in the brook? 

“Roger, I don’t know if… ah, dammit.” He almost lands face first in the water as his right foot slips on a root and his ankle twists painfully. He clings to the trunk of a small tree to keep himself upright. 

Roger is still pressing on ahead, not having noticed that anything is wrong. Freddie wants to shout at him to stop, but stops himself. He doesn’t want Roger to think of him any more as a drag than he already does.

He rights himself and gingerly puts some weight on his foot. It hurts, but he can stand as long as he favours his left. And if he can stand, he can walk. As fast as he dares, he climbs over a fallen tree and tries to catch up with Roger, who’s disappearing behind a bend just as the first raindrops begin to fall. 

The thought that Roger will abandon him, that he won’t even notice Freddie is gone until he’s reached the tent, tightens up his throat. He’ll get lost out here in the increasing rain without so much as a proper jacket to keep him warm. 

He barrels down a less overgrown stretch of the way and almost runs into Roger when he rounds the bend. 

“There you are,” Roger says, panting and flushed. “Get a move on, will you? My fucking sleeping bag is still outside.”

Freddie curses under his breath. They had put it over the tent to provide shade while the sun was blazing down. Of course they hadn’t taken it down before they headed off. Had they even bothered to zip the tent? The frightening image of their shelter flooded and their last dry clothes a sodden mess, makes him move faster than before. His foot feels almost alright, as long as he makes sure he doesn’t place it in the wrong way. 

The way seems endless. It’s only when Freddie is absolutely convinced they have been going in the wrong direction for at least half an hour that they finally cross the path that leads back up the hill. By then, the rain is pouring down and the ground beneath their feet is transforming into mud. Freddie tries to keep up with Roger, but his heels seem to get sucked into the ground with every step. But he struggles on, determined not to be left behind, although every muscle is protesting now. There’d be tea at the tent, he thinks to keep himself going. The camping stove will work even in the rain, and while the milk has spoiled, they can make up for that with an extra lump of sugar or two. If he thinks about it enough, he can almost feel the warmth of the mug seeping into his cold hands and breathe in the heavenly steam rising from it. 

It must be because he was distracted by those thoughts that he doesn’t notice the puddle. Although he probably wouldn’t have guessed how deep it truly is underneath its deceptively smooth surface even if he had looked. 

This time, there’s no tree to hold on to, and he tumbles face-first into the mud. Grit is digging into his palms and his cheek, and any part of him that wasn't wet yet is now thoroughly soaked. The cut he got on his arm last night is on fire from the water seeping through the bandages. 

He should get up and hurry after Roger, but he finds that he just. Can’t. Can’t summon the will or the strength to push himself back up. It’s as if all the drive propelling him forward has been sucked out of him and all he can do is lie here until the relentless rain washes him away. 

It’s a joke, all of it. A big cosmic joke that everyone but him is in on. 

“Jesus, Fred, are you alright?” Hands are on his back, his shoulders, trying to urge him up. Oh, how Freddie wishes Roger would just leave him alone (liar, the warm and tiny and inextinguishable gleam of hope inside him whispers). 

“Fine,” he mumbles as he lies face down in the mud, waiting, _praying_ for the earth to swallow him up. 

“Freddie, come on, get up.” The hands tug a little harder. And then, when Freddie just shakes his head, Roger’s hands slide under his armpits, and he is hauled upright with a frustrated, “What the hell’s the matter with you?” 

It’s this that does it. All ability to contain himself evaporates. 

“I hate this so much!” 

The words explode out of him. He can hear how his voice sounds, shrill, pathetic, whiny. _Useless_. But he can’t stop himself. “I hate everything about this. My ankle hurts and my arm hurts and I want proper tea with milk, and a bath, and my bed, and Tom and Jerry, and a slice of toast that is actually toasted and I… I just want to go home.” 

It’s a small mercy that he can blame any wetness on his cheeks on the rain. Not that it will do him much good. He is throwing a tantrum at the worst possible moment, and Roger is going to do what he always does when Freddie is being unreasonable - walk out, have a smoke, come back an hour or two later when the storm has blown over. 

Only if he leaves now, Freddie will melt into the ground and never come up again. 

He keeps his eyes fixed on the buttons running down the centre of Roger’s chest. He missed one, right under his sternum in his haste to put it back on. Freddie’s lashes feel heavy, sticky with raindrops. “Go save your sleeping bag,” he whispers. “I’ll just stay here and…” ...dissolve into a dew, but he doesn’t have time to finish the thought, because his throat closes up and nothing else comes out. 

“Oh damn you, you bloody…” But then it’s not names that are being thrown his way, but Roger himself, his arms wrapping so tightly around Freddie all air is forced out of his lungs. There’s wet hair in Freddie’s face as Roger cradles the back of his head with his hand and presses it into the crook of his neck, and the way that Roger’s fingers dig into his back is bordering on painful. It’s the best thing in the world. 

Freddie clings to him, helpless to do anything else as he is wrecked by heaving, shuddering sobs, which only get bigger the more he tries to contain them. His fingers clasp the back of Roger’s shirt, silently begging him not to let go. 

And he doesn’t. Roger lets him have his meltdown, one hand stroking in small circles over his back and rocking them gently from side to side. At some point, Freddie will pay for that. That Time Freddie Had To Be Coddled Like A Toddler will be a staple in Roger’s amusing catalogue of anecdotes, and Freddie will learn to grin and wave it off, as if it’s not a big deal. 

Roger doesn’t pull back until Freddie pushes him, and Freddie doesn’t push him until his legs have gone numb and he can’t stay like this a second longer. 

Freddie doesn’t dare look up, so all he sees is Roger kneeling in front of him, his light linen trousers soaked with sludge and muck. “S-sorry I’m ruining everything,” he hiccups. He means the trousers, but it applies to anything really. 

“You?” Roger sounds so incredulous that Freddie can’t help but look at him. Heavy raindrops hang on his lashes like baubles. “Freddie, without you, I wouldn’t even have got here. I’d have turned around that very first night and called Brian to come and pick me up.”

Freddie huffs out a laugh that counts as one barely just. “So without me you’d never have got into this bloody mess. You’d be safe at home in London, or at least curled up in the tent, in your barely damp sleeping bag, not out here, in the rain and the…”

“Freddie, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here.”

There’s a conviction in his voice that dares Freddie to contradict him. Freddie looks Roger over - sunburnt, dirty, soaked with rain, covered in mosquito bites - and shakes his head. “Then you’re an even bigger nutter than I thought.”

“Don’t you want to ask me why?” Roger’s biting his lips while a grin is tugging at the corners of his mouth, so incongruent with this most horrible awful day. There’s an odd expression on his face. Freddie cocks his head, shaking it lightly, trying to understand. 

Roger pokes him in the shoulder. “Go on. Don’t ruin it,” he says with a nervous, breathless chuckle. 

Oh god, Roger has thought of a joke. Judging by the way Freddie’s day is going, it might even be a pun. Roger has the most horrible puns. Freddie steels himself and does as Roger asks. “Why would you rather be here?”

A slow, slow smile appears on his face, like the sun working its way through a heavy cloud cover. Mesmerising. Irresistible. “Can’t you guess?” His gaze has Freddie trapped, pulling him in. 

Freddie closes his eyes. Oh, what a cruel man Roger can be. 

“No”, he whispers, throat close and tight. “No, I can’t fucking guess.” 

Roger knows. Of course he does, and for some reason he has decided to torture Freddie like this. Freddie had imagined him going cold and distant, or to feign understanding, perhaps even getting angry at him. But not this. 

“Oh.” The exhalation is almost as soft as the hand on his cheek. 

Pity. It’s the worst of all, and yet, pathetic as he is, Freddie can’t help but lean into the touch. “Please don’t.”

“There’s just a…” Roger’s fingers move, and when Freddie blinks his eyes open, he’s holding up a small leaf between them.

So on top of it all, Freddie looks like an ogre, too. Isn’t that just the punchline. 

Roger tosses the leaf aside. “Look, I just… this is all so…” He wipes his sodden hair out of his face in a quick, angry gesture. 

“Sorry,” Freddie repeats, although the word doesn’t convey even a fraction of what he feels. “I didn’t-”

“No, stop. Just stop.” 

Roger is glaring at him now. He looks a bit wild, with his wide blue eyes and almost translucent shirt, like an ethereal creature risen from the misty hills. Try as he might Freddie can’t look away, even when he really should. 

“That’s not what I-” Roger grits his teeth, purses his lips and takes a deep breath through his nose. “Please just deck me if I’m wrong.”

The world ends not with a clap of thunder, but with wet, cold lips pressed against his. Not with fire and brimstone cascading down on them, but with the soft brush of a nose against his cheek. 

When Roger draws back, Freddie realises his fingers are digging into Roger’s arms, holding him close. He should let go, he thinks, he really should let go, but translating the thought into action takes time and effort, especially since his mind is whirling and his chest is vibrating like mad with the furious beating of his heart. 

“I’m not? Wrong, that is,” Roger asks, as if it’s not obvious that Freddie would hurl himself off a cliff if Roger wished it so. But his eyes are searching Freddie’s face, like he is waiting for an answer. They’re so close that they share the same breath, and Freddie can’t look away from Roger’s lips. “Freddie?”

There’s a brittleness in Roger’s voice now, a hint of trepidation. _He still thinks he might be wrong_ , ridiculous as the thought might be. How can he not know, when the answers are written all over Freddie’s face?

Freddie shakes his head.

Roger frowns, his eyes narrowing, as if he’s looking at Freddie through a microscope. “What? What is that supposed to mean?” His voice is creeping higher and higher with every syllable. 

Freddie has answered his question, so why doesn’t he understand? He’s smart, in his way smarter than Brian even, why is he being so dense?

When Freddie reaches out to pull Roger into him, it’s so simple, it’s almost impossible. There is no chance it can be counted as a slip up, for Roger to think this is anything but what it is. _Here is my heart. There is nothing else I can do._ And the rest is in the lap of the gods. 

Roger’s tongue is shockingly hot as it presses into his mouth. Freddie opens up for him with a moan, tipping his head back to invite more, as much as he’s given. Roger’s fingers clutch the soaking wet hair at the back of his head, both pulling and pushing him closer. It’s the most amazing feeling, like flying and falling and not minding which one it is. 

They break apart, breathing hard after minutes or hours, Freddie doesn’t know, nor care. Roger’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, his lips tantalisingly open. Freddie immediately wants to feel them on him again. He’s allowed now, isn’t he?

But Roger looks like he’s trying to say something. Only he seems completely lost for words. He shakes his head, huffs out a laugh and looks away, but only for a second. Freddie could watch his expressive face forever. A play full of light and shadow, put on only for him. It’s better like this, without words. They’ll only break the spell. 

Lightning flash and the crash of thunder barely a second later make them jump. 

“Fuck,” Roger whispers. He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, in and out. “Er. What about your foot then,” he asks and gestures towards it. “Are you hurt?”

Oh, right. His foot. He has got feet. He should probably remember that. “It’s alright,” he says. 

“Are you sure?” Another bolt of lightning flashes through the air, casting them both in stark white light. “We really should get going then. Come on.” 

So his foot might not be quite alright after all. There _is_ a twinge when he puts it down at a wrong angle. 

It might not be so bad that he needs to cling quite so tightly to Roger either. Technically speaking. But Roger makes little encouraging noises when he puts his weight on him, and he’s warm and solid and pressed into Freddie’s side. He’s stronger than he looks, which makes Freddie weaker than he already is. It’s a dangerously alluring mix.

They’re half-walking, half-sliding down the other side of the hill now. The sodden ground is slippery and it’s a fight to stay on their feet. Freddie’s silver necklace is swinging back and forth with every step, the pendant bumping into his chest. 

“I can’t carry it for you,” Roger says with a sly grin. 

Freddie tries to make sense of that, but finds he doesn’t have the mind for it right now. “Carry what?”

Roger chuckles. “Read a book once in a while, will you?” But he squeezes Freddie’s side with his hand, so he doesn’t seem to care that Freddie didn’t get whatever literary allusion he just made. He wants to protest that he _does_ read books from time to time, has been reading one the whole time they’ve been here, in fact, but thinking of that book and who gave it to him makes his stomach clench up with guilt, so he pushes it away. Not now. 

The campsite is a mess. How Freddie ever could have thought the place beautiful and the trip a great idea, he can’t possibly understand. The lake is dull and grey, the wildflowers beaten down and broken from the relentless rain, and their tent is soaked with water and looks like it’s minutes from collapsing. It doesn’t help that it’s being weighed down by Roger’s dripping sleeping bag. 

“Oh, crap.” Roger races off to get his sleeping bag off the tent, and immediately Freddie misses his warmth. The euphoria of what happened on the hill is wearing off, and he dreads what might fill the gap. Shivering, he wraps his arms around himself and watches as Roger tosses the sleeping bag aside and tries to tighten the ropes that keep the tent in place. The bright sunshine and the summer heat seem ages ago, a mere memory.

Feeling that he should do something to help, Freddie starts picking up stuff they left carelessly lying around - a cheap pair of sunglasses, a half-eaten packet of crisps, his second-favourite scarf. He doesn’t know what to do with them - it’s not like he can bring them inside and place them on the radiator - so he just stands there, feeling vaguely numb and decidedly stupid. The wind is coming in harsh, freezing gusts, driving spatters of rain into his skin. 

“Christ, your teeth are chattering!” Freddie startles when he realises Roger has come to stand in front of him. “Come on, lets get inside the tent before we freeze our balls off.”

He lets himself be dragged to the entrance, then stares numbly as Roger starts taking off his clothes. It’s as if this trip is developing a chorus, he thinks, an unexpected bout of nudity from his best friend every day in the late afternoon. The other half of his brain is trying not to think of what this means, while doing exactly that. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. It’s all just going a bit fast. 

Roger pauses in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt. “Freddie, er. Don’t me wrong, but. Especially with all the. You know. _That._ ” Roger is gesturing towards the hill, biting his lips while a faint blush spreads over his neck. “But we do have to get out of these wet clothes. Otherwise, we won’t find a dry spot anywhere in the tent.” 

“Right,” Freddie stammers, wanting to slap himself in the face. The problem is that getting caught in the rain and being forced to huddle for warmth has been the epitome of his half-formed feverish fantasies this entire trip. It’s possible that he wouldn’t even be here if this outcome hadn’t had at least a fleeting chance of becoming reality. And he can’t pretend that he hasn’t been hoping for a repeat of that missed chance on the first night ever since. 

Only now that it’s here, it’s so frightening, Freddie doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Just leave everything out here, we’ll sort it out in the morning,” Roger says while toeing off his socks and hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his briefs. 

Freddie drops what he’s been holding. It’s on purpose. He needs his hands free to get out of his sodden clothes after all. 

His trousers land on the ground, followed by his shirt. He does well, until he gets distracted by the overwhelming sight of Roger’s bare bum wriggling side to side as he crawls inside the tent, and he gets tangled in one of those infernal tethers that hold the tent in place. 

A loud crack of thunder brings him back into himself. _Focus._ It’s awfully cold, and he doesn’t want to spend a moment more here than necessary out here. 

When he's completely bare except for his necklace, he takes one last deep breath and follows Roger inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this chapter has been [podficced](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477331) by the amazing and multitalented @nastally! Go listen!


	7. Tilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, @bisexualroger, for your fantastic beta work!

Roger greets him not with a passionate embrace, but with a damp towel. It’s a bit of an anticlimax, but still. It’s Roger’s towel, and he clearly tried to keep as much of it dry for Freddie to use as possible.

The tent is a mess. Not that it has ever been particularly tidy, but now that Roger has emptied out their rucksacks in search of their last dry and clean clothes, every square inch is cluttered. Not to mention that while they left their clothes outside and the tent held off the worst of the rain, they still dragged in a fair amount of mud and water. Everything is cold and damp.

While Freddie dries himself off as best as he can, kneeling awkwardly on a jumper that is probably for the bin, Roger shoves most of the mess towards the sides of the tent. Then he pushes their air mattresses together in the free space in the middle and puts Freddie’s sleeping bag on top of it, unzipped like a blanket.

Freddie sits down gingerly on the edge of what is, essentially a double bed. With only one small blanket. And of course he’s still naked. He should probably do something about that. He’s just not entirely sure what.

“Here, these should be reasonably dry.” As if on cue, Roger takes the decision out of his hands and tosses a completely mismatched set of clothes his way. Pyjama bottoms and a vintage silk shirt (Freddie says a quiet prayer of thanks that he hadn’t worn that today - it would have been ruined!), along with his own treasured pair of gigantic woollen socks. Roger had explained to Freddie that they’re a family heirloom, handed down from generation to generation. Which is clearly hogwash, but from the archaic looks of them, Freddie is almost inclined to believe him.

The clothes are clammy and uncomfortable against his skin. He tries to hold himself still, to have as little contact as possible with the fabric. He picks up the socks, but hesitates before putting them on. “These are yours,” Freddie says, holding them up and looking at Roger.

It’s a bit difficult to stay focussed on the question when Roger has changed into a sort of tight leggings and an unbuttoned soft-blue cardigan. It should be less confounding than his earlier nudity. Somehow, it’s worse.

Sometimes Freddie has no idea how he survived sharing a room with him for all those months.

“Keep them, your feet get colder than mine. Speaking of which,” Roger shuffles a bit closer. “How is your foot?”

Before Freddie can do anything about it - not that he would have done anything about it - Roger has grabbed his foot and put it in his lap, carefully running his fingers over his ankle. It feels so exceptionally nice that Freddie almost doesn’t notice it’s the wrong foot. After a serious internal debate, he holds out his other leg. “It’s this one,” he says, and then - because he is not only an artistic genius but also a colossal idiot - adds a “doctor” at the end that somehow comes out way more breathy than he intended, and he supposes he should just head outside with a laconic “I’m going to be some time” and throw himself into the lake.

But Roger just smirks and accepts his other foot, holding it between his palms for a minute. The warmth from his hands is heavenly. Somehow, Freddie manages not to moan. He feels it spreading out all through his body, so much so that he fears steam might be rising from his damp clothes.

“It does look a bit swollen,“ Roger says, comparing the two feet with a critical eye.

Freddie gasps. “Are you saying I’ve got fat ankles?” He might be overplaying it a bit, but he’s just grateful to move the conversation along.

“Never!” Roger protests. Then he grows serious. “ _Are_ you hurt though?”

Freddie shrugs. He can hardly admit that he doesn’t notice it at all as long as he doesn’t place it the wrong way. That would make his earlier outburst appear even more unnecessarily dramatic. Honestly, he’s glad that there is some swelling, a tangible proof that he’s not just being a wimp. “A bit, but… It’s alright.”

“Want me to wrap it up for you?”

If he speaks now, the words “just kiss it better” might escape his mouth, so Freddie just shakes his head mutely. Then he immediately regrets it, because it would have been nice to have Roger’s hands on him a bit longer.

“Alright.” And then Roger leans down and kisses the sensitive skin right underneath his ankle.

Freddie has no idea what the correct response is. Fainting seems natural, although a tad melodramatic. Leaping forward and kissing that impish grin off Roger’s face threatens to send his pulse spiralling out of control. He settles on just sitting there and staring at Roger like an imbecile. At least he remembers to clamp his mouth shut after a few seconds.

Roger - with maddening, completely unfair nonchalance - winks at Freddie and carefully puts on his socks for him. Then he lifts the edge of the sleeping bag. “Come on. You look like you’re freezing.”

Freddie feels as if currents of lava are running under his skin, but who is he to protest when Roger is shuffling close to him and wrapping the sleeping bag around both their shoulders. They’re pressed close together, shoulder and thigh touching. It shouldn’t be affecting him so much - they’ve sat together like this more times than he can count, on shared sofas and slumped against each other in the back of touring vans.

But then Roger hadn’t kissed him (three times now has he kissed him!) any of those times. And they were never this alone, hunched together with not a soul for miles around, while the rain patters relentlessly against the canvas of their shelter.

Roger’s arm comes up around his shoulders, slowly, hesitantly. As if suddenly he needed to ask. Freddie doesn’t want him to ask, and yet the fact that he does makes him feel all warm inside.

“You’re shivering,” Roger whispers and Freddie can’t even tell if he’s hot or cold any more, only that Roger is here, pressing into his side, holding him. He rubs his hand over Freddie’s arm for a moment, then stops and pulls away minutely. “I… I can make us some tea, if you like. It’ll do you good.”

To think that Freddie had been fantasising about tea only an hour ago. But now there’s no space in his mind for tea. He shakes his head, mutely. _For I have neither wit nor words nor worth._

“Right,” Roger says with a shaky laugh. “Wouldn’t want to burn the only sleeping bag we’ve got left, would we?”

“No,” Freddie breathes. For a moment, up on the hill, when he had leaned in, everything had been so clear. Laid out stark and honest, like a dark silhouette against a flash of lightning. But now everything feels so muddled, and Roger unreadable. Kissing his foot and offering him tea, his hand a brand against Freddie’s shoulder, but never meeting his eyes.

Roger pulls him a little closer. “But we need to get you warmed up, hm?” His fingers again trace circles over Freddie’s arm. “Don’t you worry. I know just the thing.”

Freddie hardly dares to breathe as he turns his head towards Roger. He doesn’t raise his eyes to look at him, but he can feel Roger’s breath against his face.

But then, instead of lips descending on his and curious hands slipping under his shirt, Roger leans away, his arm suddenly gone from Freddie’s shoulder.

It feels as if his heart is shrinking, crumpled into a tiny ball by a steely fist closing around it. It’s not that he doesn’t dare to breathe any more, it’s that he _can’t_. Roger is on all fours, rummaging around a stack of gear and provisions, while Freddie sits stiff and frozen. All the warmth that had been coursing through him has been blown away as if by a polar gale. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take before he cracks like a pane of glass.

“Here!” Roger sits back down. There’s a conspiratorial grin on his face, and he’s holding something blue and gold in his hands. “It’s melted and then solidified into a blob, but it should be eatable. It’ll help.”

Cadbury chocolate? It’s not what Freddie wants but still he goes soft with relief. Roger isn’t running away from him. He’s just… he’s trying to take care of Freddie.

Roger tears open the package, breaks off a piece (or a lump really) and holds it out.

Unthinking, because Freddie’s thoughts are trapped in a spiral of what Roger’s hands would look like if they tore up his shirt just like he did the chocolate wrapping (and Freddie would let him destroy a hundred silk shirts in a heartbeat), Freddie leans forward and wraps his lips around the piece.

He immediately realises this is not what Roger intended. He’s embarrassed himself, _yet again_ but there’s no taking it back now. As he leans back, the chocolate, rich and sweet, melts in his mouth. And he realises in this very moment, just how hungry he is. He concentrates on that, instead of the mess he’s making of the whole situation. He swallows the bite down and reaches for the rest of the chocolate.

But instead of giving it to him, Roger holds it out of reach and breaks off another piece. Freddie raises his gaze to find Roger’s eyes locked on him. They are enormous, looking almost black in the twilight instead of their usual lovely blue. He cocks his head a little and a playful smile tugs at one corner of his lips as he lifts the piece to Freddie’s mouth.

Freddie lets him push it inside and almost chokes when Roger’s fingertip brushes over his upper lip as he pulls back.

“Damn.” Roger shakes his head and chuckles, his eyes glued to Freddie’s lips. “Not what I was going for. But it’s good,” he adds quickly. “It’s _great_.” He makes good of his words by following it up with yet another piece, and this time his fingers linger a second longer so Freddie touches his tongue, very briefly, to the tip.

Roger stares at him, with that amazed, disbelieving expression, as if Freddie were a rare treasure he can’t believe he found. Acting on a whim, because right now, in this ratty tent in the middle of nowhere, all the normal rules seem to have been suspended, Freddie bites his finger, lightly.

Or it’s supposed to be lightly, but going by the offended shriek with which Roger retracts his hand, it might not have been.

“Sorry,” he stammers, but Roger is giggling and it’s hard not to join in.

“This is so…” Roger shakes his head as he thinks about to finish the sentence. “You’re something else, Freddie, you know that?”

‘Is that good?’ he wants to ask. Because he always thought it wasn’t, but Roger’s saying it as if it _is_.

Roger’s hand reaches out again, empty this time, and lands lightly on the edge of Freddie jaw, the top of his neck. The touch sends shivers all over his skin, shivers that have nothing to do with exhaustion or the cold or lack of proper food. “Can I kiss you again?”

Freddie puts his hand over Roger’s. “Of course,” he says, way too politely, as if Roger had asked if he could borrow a jumper.

It starts slow and soft, question and answer, like an echo of their words. Then Roger’s lips part, inviting Freddie’s tongue in and all caution melts away. Freddie’s fingers dig into Roger’s shoulders, and he barely hears the rumbling of the thunder outside over the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Roger’s hand stays on his cheek, angling his head with soft pressure of his fingers, gently making Freddie yield to him. Freddie moans, low in his throat, and opens his mouth wider to get more of him. Roger’s tongue is in his mouth, a hot, slick slide that makes Freddie tremble with desire.

Roger’s response is immediate. His hands go to the front of Freddie’s shirt, gripping it so his knuckles are pressing into Freddie’s chest as he pulls him even closer. It’s sinful and messy, the kind of kiss that bypasses all thought and reason, whispering its lecherous promises directly to his eager body.

How dare he, Freddie thinks with what is left of his brain, how dare he be so good at this. It’s the kind of kiss that would make his knees weak if he weren’t already sitting down, the kind that makes his head spin and the world tilt on its axis.

It’s only when the back of his head touches the wobbly surface of the air mattress that he realises, the world hasn’t tilted. _He_ has, and Roger with it. In fact, Roger is the lever driving it all, his chest pressing into Freddie’s, knees bracing his body. Freddie arches up, straining towards Roger, eyes tightly shut. He’s completely unable to hold back the small noises escaping the back of his throat, the wetness pricking the corner of his eyes, all that need and uncertainty and desperation spilling out of him.

Then Roger pulls back, despite Freddie’s mumbled protests. But the sight before him when he opens his eyes - Roger’s face, flushed and pink-lipped, the hollow at the bottom of his throat deepening with every harshly indrawn breath - is almost worth it. It’s this awed, almost dazzled expression again, as if he can’t believe what is happening. Freddie tries to pull him close, but Roger holds his distance, a slight frown appearing between his eyebrows.

Oh god, please don’t. Please not now, or Freddie will shatter into a million pieces.

Freddie tries again, but this time Roger pulls back completely, loosening his grip on Freddie’s shirt. It feels as if something he almost thought secure is slipping through his fingers. Freddie wishes Roger would just close the gap between them, overwhelm his senses and smother any doubt, any thought inside him.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Roger says, smoothing his fingers down the creased front of Freddie’s shirt.

Freddie takes in a ragged breath. As if it were that simple.

“Talk to me, Freddie,” Roger says, fingers fluttering over his chest, his cheeks, as if he can’t stop himself from touching.

“I… I just don’t know what to do,” Freddie whispers, hardly knowing himself what he means. “About… about any of this.” It’s all he wished for so fervently, but something in him tells him he can’t have it. Not in the way it counts.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Roger says.

Freddie shakes his head. Roger is still so tantalisingly close it’s hard to keep his thoughts together. He thinks it’s about sex, but it’s not about that (except of course it is that too). It’s about the world that is supposed to be locked outside but insists on forcing its way in.

Roger crawls off him and Freddie wants to scream with frustration. But then Roger lies down next to him, so close their shoulders brush, and his hand is tugging on Freddie’s arm, inviting him in. “Here. Just lie with me. Alright?”

With his head settled on Roger’s shoulder, Freddie can feel every breath he takes. After a couple of minutes, their rhythms start to match. He keeps his arms folded up against himself initially, not knowing where to put them. But when the back of his hand touches Roger’s side and there’s no hint of protest, he places it - with the caution of a specialist defusing a bomb - on his belly. The spot feels like it is made for his palm. When Freddie is very still, he can even feel the beating of his heart.

The storm is nearing its crescendo, with barely a pause between flash and thunder. The rain is still pouring down and the wind makes a loose tent flap rattle against canvas like an erratic snare drum. Freddie wonders if Roger is thinking the same thing. He’s almost sure he is.

The thought makes him smile, his cheek moving against the fabric of Roger’s cardigan.

“What,” Roger asks.

Saying it out loud would spoil it. “Nothing.”

Roger’s arm, which has come around Freddie’s shoulders, tightens its hold a bit. “I meant what I said,” Roger says after a pause. “I’m happy to be here. With you. It’s all a bit mental but… maybe that’s not such a bad thing, is it?”

What a Roger thing to say. “No. Not at all.” Then he summons all his courage. “I’m happy to be here with you too.” Roger’s hand land’s on Freddie’s.

Only the roar of the thunderstorm outside fills the silence within the tent for a long while. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but there is so much else Freddie feels he should say. Only he doesn’t know where to start or where to end. But he can’t let this moment slip away.

“Why haven’t you said anything before?” he asks.

“Why haven’t you?”

It’s a volley lobbed straight back at him and Freddie tenses throughout. It’s not fair for Roger to ask him that, he feels that deep down, but how could he explain why when he doesn’t understand it himself?

“No, wait.” Roger pulls him a little closer and takes a deep breath. “I tried but… I don’t know Fred, do you think this is easy for me?”

Freddie perks up a little. “You tried?”

Roger nods. “I wasn’t sure. About anything. Especially after Cornwall.”

_It’s so late that Freddie has no idea if it’s still night or already morning. The taste of Sweet Cornish cider is filling his mouth, it’s effects softening his senses. Roger is telling a story about something that Freddie has long lost track off, and Roger probably as well, if his confused frown and frequent pauses are anything to go by._

And then… no matter how much Freddie tries to recall the exact sequence of events, he can’t. Roger had tried to get up from the worn out sofa, but misjudged the momentum needed and plopped right back down. His arms flailed as he tried to hold onto something, while Freddie instinctively leaned forward and reached out to steady him.

All that he remembers, bright as the north star on a clear night, is Roger’s hand around his waist, and a wet slide of lips over his cheek, a shared breath that seemed to last forever.

“You’re so… _you_ ,” Roger continues, bringing Freddie back to the present. “Just because you’re a bit, you know, _flamboyant_ , it doesn’t mean… And anytime I tested the waters you seemed terrified.” Roger runs one hand through Freddie’s hair. “I don’t want to terrify you. Ever.”

_Tested the waters._ A suspicion rears its head. “Like when you stripped down and had me search you for ticks?”

Roger chuckles. The vibrations are soothing ripples through Freddie’s body. “No, Freddie, I did not stage a tick-attack in an attempt to seduce you.”

Freddie’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. The idea that someone would go to such lengths to seduce him is lovely.

“But afterwards, I thought back to it and… you looked like a deer in headlights. Or that first night when you had the only dry sleeping bag. You seemed terrified I might ask you to share.”

“I did offer,” Freddie points out.

“Eventually. Because you felt you had to. Or so I thought.”

“I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Roger says, the same soft ‘oh’ he had made before he kissed Freddie the first time. He moves a little and there is a light pressure against the crown of Freddie’s head. Freddie has to remember how to get Roger to make that sound, because it is the sweetest sound on earth. And also Roger kisses him after, so it’s important. “Well, you’ve got your wish now,” Roger says.

“Yes.” He nuzzles his nose in to Roger’s shoulder.

“And I got mine.” The words are a whisper, barely audible over the rolling thunder

And the hills surrounding them

the wrath of the thunderstorm

the protective shelter of the tent

the warm cocoon of their sleeping bag

none of them are enough to keep the world and its worries at bay.

The circle of Roger’s arms is.


	8. Delighting in Your Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the final chapter! So many thanks and 💖💖💖 to my wonderful beta and britpicker @bisexualoger and everyone else who supported me through this! (100 Kudos today - that's amazing 😊)
> 
> Also, the story rating has gone up.

A crash and a muffled curse have Freddie flailing awake. He squints in the bright light streaming in through the open entrance of the tent, shielding his eyes with his hand. 

Roger is outside, on his hands and knees, picking himself up from the ground. He slaps the tether stretching out from the tent, producing a twanging sound, and then calls it a cunt. Seemingly satisfied with his vengeance, he crawls into the tent. 

When his eyes meet Freddie’s, his sour expression lights up. 

“Morning,” he says. 

“Morning,” Freddie croaks. His voice is still rough with sleep and his mind busy coming to terms with the fact that he has lost his heart to a man who just tried to pick a fistfight with a tent. And once his brain has somewhat caught up, he is thrown off course again because said man is pressing a kiss to his temple. Just like that, without any excuse or hesitation. 

Happiness surges through Freddie, so sharp and pure it makes it hard to breathe. 

Roger has drawn back a little. His eyes are fixed on Freddie’s face, a trace of worry in them. “Alright?” he asks.

Freddie wants him never to question whether that is alright again. Roger may kiss him in the rain, and in the dark of night, and he may kiss him still sleep-addled in the sunny morning. Every morning, forever. 

Before he can get too self-conscious about the fact that he might be getting a little ahead of himself there, he’s hooked his finger into the neckline of Roger’s shirt and drawn him towards himself, pressing their lips firmly together. _Alright._

Roger beams at him when they draw apart. “I made tea,” he announces. “No, stay here,” he says when Freddie starts to get up. “It’s still all wet and muddy out there. I’ll get you some.”

The tea has brewed too long and is way too sweet and there’s no milk in it. Freddie cradles it between his hands like a treasure. While he takes careful sips, Roger is busy shoving clothes and equipment into his rucksack. At first Freddie thinks he’s tidying up - and it speaks of his distracted state of mind that this doesn’t make him suspicious - but when Roger removes the torch they fixed to the roof of the tent, it's obvious that something else is going on. 

“Are you packing up?” Freddie tries not let his anxious thoughts race ahead of him.

“Yup.”

“But we’ve still got one more night to go!” Freddie has _plans_ for that night. Or perhaps not plans, as such. Ideas. Fantasies. 

Oh God, and Roger probably sensed that and now he’s panicking and fleeing back to London. But then why has he kissed him?

Roger turns to look at him. “Oh yes!” 

There is nothing ambiguous about his expression. He looks radiantly happy and a bit impish, and Freddie is scrambling to make sense of it. “So why are you…”

“And we’re going to spend it in that lovely hotel we passed on the way here.”

 _We._ Both of them. In a bed, probably. And Roger is looking forward to it. Freddie should just nod and count his blessings, but instead, of course, he starts to argue. “But that was miles away, how are we…”

“Four miles, tops, if we turn right at the crossing. And the sun is out - lovely day for a hike.”

If there is one thing Freddie has had enough of for the rest of his life it’s bloody hikes. But then, that hotel had looked nice. He remembers staring at it longingly as they drove past. _Expensively_ nice. “Do you really think we’ve got the money for…”

Suddenly Roger is very close. “Do you really think I care about the money right now?”

Freddie is overwhelmed by those eyes. That voice. “‘kay.” He blinks up at Roger a couple of times. “But the bet…” 

“And screw the fucking bet.”

Roger’s growl brings heat to Freddie’s chest and cheeks. The memory of last night comes rushing back to him, of Roger pressing him into the mattress, of a kiss that had him gasping for more. He feels his cock rubbing against the fabric of his pyjama bottoms, mortified at the thought that Roger might notice. Wondering if there’s an inconspicuous way to bring it to his attention.

There’s something dark, almost calculating in Roger’s eyes as he observes the effects his words have on Freddie. As if he knows exactly what a riot he’s causing in him, and enjoying every second of it. 

Just when Freddie is about to do something drastic (rip off all his clothes, or Roger’s clothes, or even make a horrible double entendre about screwing, God help him), Roger pulls back. 

“Drink up,” he says with a playful nod at Freddie’s now lukewarm tea. “And then let’s get out of here.”

Now that he’s got something to look forward to, Freddie doesn’t dawdle. He empties his cup, and then starts going about the business of getting dressed and packing up. 

As Roger has said, the sun is out again, quickly dispelling any lingering dampness. Everything smells crisp and clean, and Freddie inhales deeply. There is something to be said for the fresh country air. Especially when one is about to leave it behind for the comforts of civilisation. They take about an hour collecting all their various trinkets and somehow squeezing them into their packs, finishing with the tent. 

They’re almost ready to go, when Freddie catches sight of something lying forgotten on the ground. It’s sodden and half-dissolved, but he immediately recognises the paperback Mary had given him as a surprise gift one day. 

_Her large doe-eyes as she tells him she loves him._

Large, but the entirely wrong shade of blue.

_Her soft lips on his cheek as she kisses him goodbye._

Softer perhaps than Rogers, but how tepid in comparison. 

He should feel bad for being able to make that comparison in the first place. He should feel even worse that the result is so crystal clear. 

As they wave goodbye to the campsite, the novel is a faint speck of colour in the drying grass. 

~~~  
The hotel isn’t nice, it’s _grand_. And hotel doesn’t seem like the right word either. 

It’s a mansion surrounded by lush green parks that has been converted into a hotel as an afterthought. Luxury cars are parked alongside a wide driveway that is lined with accurately trimmed hedges. 

As Roger confidently leads them into the lobby, Freddie feels like an ogre that has escaped from the woods among the elegant decor and liveried foot boys bustling about. He tries to smooth down his hair at the last minute, but after the rain-only wash it got yesterday, it is impossibly curled up. 

The middle-aged man behind the reception counter gives them a disbelieving look as they approach, while his colleague, a young, slightly plump woman looks more intrigued than anything else. Freddie straightens his posture and pulls his lips over his teeth, trying to look just like he belongs here. 

“How may I help you, gentlemen?” The receptionist asks, clearly suppressing a smirk. 

“Yeah, we’d like a quote for a room,” Roger says. “One night, park-side view, if possible.” 

“Terribly sorry, sir, but…” He exaggeratedly consults a heavy ledger. “...we seem to be fully booked.”

“Are you now,” Roger asks and everything in his posture tells Freddie that he’s not going to take this gracefully.

“Actually, there’s still the-” The girl breaks off at the pointed glare from her colleague. 

“Yes?” Roger asks. “There’s the what?”

The receptionist clears his throat. “The Premier Suite,” he says. 

Roger throws a quick glance at Freddie over his shoulder. “Sounds alright to me.” To his credit, his expression doesn’t falter a bit when the receptionist gleefully announces the price, which is more than three weeks of Freddie’s rent. 

Freddie meanwhile is trying to think of a way to get his friend out of this. Roger would rather go into debt than back down now, but perhaps Freddie can think of something. As much as he is longing to just get that rucksack off him and soak in the giant bathtub a Premier Suite is surely going to be equipped with, he really shouldn’t let Roger do this. Surely there must be a more modest B&B around here somewhere?

“Oh,” the girl pipes up again, “I think you mixed it up with our bank holiday quote, Andrew. Actually it’s only-”

Andrew’s stares at her as if he’s trying to incinerate her on the spot. “My mistake,” he grinds out. 

“Excellent!” Roger dumps his luggage to the ground and beams at the receptionist with his brightest smile. It’s still beyond anything they can realistically afford, but the discount is sizeable. 

They’re made to fill out a registration form, which Andrew collects with a huff and takes back into his office to check. Probably to make sure they’re not escaped convicts. 

The girl is busily scribbling something onto a form. Probably just so she doesn’t accidentally catch Andrew’s eye upon his return. 

Roger is leaning against the counter, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Nice, this, innit?” he asks and indicates the grand staircase leading up. 

Freddie nods appreciatively. “Bet you it’s got indoor plumbing even.”

“And no stray sheep wandering the hallways.”

Freddie wriggles his hand. “We are still in Wales though…” 

“Ah, good point.” Roger’s eyes catch on a large basket with apples and bananas behind the counter. “‘Scuse me, are those for sale?” 

The girl startles from her work. “It’s not, I’m afraid. But we’ll be glad to arrange for room service to deliver a fruit tray, sir.”

“Nah, I don’t need a whole fruit tray. Just and apple or two will do.”

“Actually, these are for us employees.” She looks apologetic and also a bit overwhelmed. And probably scared of doing the wrong thing and pissing off Andrew again. 

Roger leans on the counter, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Perhaps you’d be willing to sell me _your_ apple then?” He smiles at her in a way that isn’t really insinuating, but not wholly innocent either. Freddie is filled with the sudden urge to grab his arm and drag him away, hissing. 

She reaches into the basket and hands over an apple. “Consider it a gift, Mr Taylor,” the silly girl giggles. 

“Much obliged,” Roger says, taking the apple from her, while Freddie observes his every move. If Roger even so much as suggests a hand kiss now, Freddie will have to take drastic measures. 

Luckily, that’s when the snooty receptionist returns with a foot boy, and Roger is distracted with letting the apple disappear unobtrusively into his pocket. 

The Premier Suite is everything the name promises. Two bedrooms with en-suites connected by a living-room, furnished with mahogany dressers and thick carpets, sunlight streaming through the windows opening to the park. 

Actually, Freddie realises after a few minutes, the fact that there are two bedrooms is a bit worrying. They’re not going to sleep apart, are they? 

“Not too bad,” Roger says as he nonchalantly passes a note to the unlucky foot boy whose job it was to carry their luggage upstairs. Then he throws himself onto the chesterfield and stretches out his arms along the backrest, sighing contentedly. 

Oh, what a rock star he’ll make. 

Roger grins up at Freddie. “What,” he asks.

Freddie shakes his head. “It suits you very well,” he says. “This whole millionaire act.” It does. He looks awfully good like this. 

“Only thing missing is a million or two.”

“Oh, they’ll come to you in time, darling, don’t you worry.” And for some reason, Freddie can’t conceive of a future that doesn’t feature rooms like these on a regular basis. Only without the four days in hell before that.

Speaking of which. He reeks. His hair is a total disaster and his fingernails look like something out of a horror movie. 

“I,” he announces as if he were a monarch proclaiming a new law, “am going to have a bath.” 

And before Roger can get any ideas in his head about joining him (which is among Freddie’s higher ranked fantasies, but would be too much, too fast right now), he marches off towards the bedroom to the right. 

~~~

The embrace of the hot, scented water is a soothing balm to his sore muscles. He can’t even say that he’s been feeling particularly cold before he got into it, but there’s something about the heat surrounding him and the steam rising from it which drives even the last lingering memories of the freezing rain out of his body. With a sigh, he sinks down a bit deeper into the tub (a proper, lion-footed thing) and tries to keep his mind blank as his body wallows in bliss. 

It works for about ten seconds before thoughts, automatic and unstoppable, set in. 

Because they’re going to have sex. Him and Roger. Presumably. Not that Roger has _said_ as much. But he had heavily implied it. And Freddie is not that bad at reading people. 

But perhaps he’s lost his nerve. Or he’s become distracted by the sight of that girl at the reception. A reminder that he doesn’t have to put up with Freddie, that now that they’re back in civilisation, there are other options. 

On the other hand, Roger has kissed him first. He’s kissed him several times, in fact, and last night he seemed as if he wanted to do more than just kissing. _Roger’s chest pressing into Freddie’s, knees bracing his body, his tongue invading Freddie’s mouth._

A heat that makes the water seem lukewarm in comparison rises into his cheeks and flows down into his belly. The temptation is there to get lost in the fantasy of what might have been and stroke himself to completion in the safety of the bathtub. 

He gets to his feet a little too quickly. Water spills over the edge of the tub and his vision goes hazy for a second. There is a soft looking white robe lying on a shelf, but he can’t imagine walking back into the suite wearing nothing but that. 

(While Roger is still fully dressed, in jeans a white shirt that’s a little too tight, or a suit even, befitting a millionaire. And Freddie would step right in between his invitingly spread knees, and Roger would slowly reach for the belt of his bathrobe, a cocky grin on his face, because he knows exactly what he’s doing to Freddie.)

Freddie rests his forehead against the cool, cream-coloured tile covering the wall for a moment, taking deep breaths.

When he feels like he has regained some kind of grip on his overheated imagination, he straightens up and reaches past the bath robe for the clothes he’d put on a hanger. It’s the least wrinkled set of clothes from his duffel and the steam from the bath has smoothed them out a bit more. Simple black cotton trousers that follow the line of his legs, and a rather nice light-blue button down shirt. He opens and closes the top button about fifty times before deciding to keep it open.

Then his hair. And a shave too, for good measure. He tries out all the products the hotel provides, patting his cheeks with citrusy after-shave and massaging some lotion into his hands. 

Not that he’s stalling for time or anything.

He rolls his eyes at himself and accepts with a sigh that his face still only looks sort-of-attractive from exactly two angles and turns to face the door. There’s a churning feeling in his stomach, almost exactly like the flutter of nerves he gets before he goes on stage. Except there’s only Roger waiting for him (provided that he hasn’t realised his folly and fled back into the wilderness). And Roger is not an audience. He’s… 

Well, Freddie won’t find out what he is if he keeps dithering in here, will he? 

Back straight, head held high, he strides into the living room. 

Roger is still on the sofa, flipping through a glossy magazine. No, Freddie corrects himself, he’s _back_ on the sofa, having changed into fresh clothes (faded jeans and a green t-shirt) as well. His hair is still wet, the tips leaving dark spots where they brush against his shirt. 

“There you are,” Roger says and gets up from the sofa. “Thought you got lost.” He comes to stand in front of Freddie, a bit closer than he normally would. Freddie can smell the hotel shampoo on him. 

There’s an eyelash on Roger’s cheek, and Freddie automatically raises his hand to brush it off. Panic sets in halfway through the movement, and he diverts his hand to his own hair. There goes all that careful styling. 

Roger follows his hand with his eyes. “You’re, er, looking good,” he says, then grimaces. “Christ, I have no idea how to do this.” He huffs out a short laugh and bounces on the balls of his feet, his nervous energy radiating off him. 

“That makes two of us,” Freddie stutters. 

Roger hesitates for a moment. “I’ve got just the thing,” he says, and takes a step away from Freddie, who fights the urge to bang his head against the wall. Roger doesn’t go far, stopping at a sideboard with two shot glasses and the rest of the Southern Comfort. “I completely forgot earlier.” He fills two glasses, only to about a finger’s width, and hands one to Freddie. “To indoor plumbing,” he says and raises his glass. 

“And central heating,” Freddie adds. 

“And actual beds.” Roger lets his eyes linger on Freddie’s face for a moment before he knocks back the shot. 

If Roger’s plan is to drive him absolutely insane with uncertainty, it’s definitely working. Freddie takes a sip of the bourbon, letting the sharp taste distract him from this mess that’s unfolding between them for a moment. 

“So,” Roger says, putting his glass back down. He bites his lips and a mischievous expression appears on his face. “You wanna…” He inclines his head towards one of the bedrooms. 

Oh, thank God. Freddie twirls his glass between his fingers, drawing his head back a little. “I would indeed,” he says, as archly as he can. 

“Would you now?” Roger asks, biting back a grin. “How most excellent, my old chap.”

Freddie holds out a hand in the direction of the bedroom, the familiar rhythm of their banter calming his nerves a little. “After you, my dear.” 

“Oh please, after _you_ ,” Roger says with a slight bow. 

“Well, if you insist,” Freddie replies crisply and turns into the direction of the bedroom. 

“Freddie…” 

The note in Roger’s voice makes him hesitate. When he looks at his friend, there’s still a smile on his face, but it’s tampered by a frown and nervous fingers tapping against the top of the sideboard. 

“Yes?”

“How _do_ we figure out who does what?”

“Who does… oh.” Freddie swallows hard and tries not to look like he’s two seconds from bursting into flame, from embarrassment or excitement or both. He empties his glass to buy himself some more time, the alcohol burning in his throat. “Arm wrestling is traditional, best of three.” He ventures a quick glance at Roger, relieved to see him grin at the joke. “However, the modern sophisticated homosexual,” oh how proud he is to get that word out smoothly without tripping over it, “often opts for a quick round of rock-paper-scissors.”

Without missing a beat, Roger plunks his elbow down on the sideboard. “I’m not particularly sophisticated,” he says, clearly enjoying this now. “Or a homosexual for that matter,” he adds after a second.

“Oh, neither am I!” Freddie hastens to assure Roger. Too quick, too loud. “I mean-” He looks away from Roger’s dubious expression, trying to find words for something he hasn’t allowed himself to think about very much. 

Roger saves him. “Perhaps we don’t have to work that out right now?” He steps away from the sideboard and closes the gap between himself and Freddie. His hands flutter between the two of them for a moment, before settling on Freddie’s chest, to either side of his open collar. 

“Yes, I think that’s best,” Freddie breathes while the touch of Roger’s hands sends a tingle all over his skin. 

“Brilliant. Now that neither of us is bound by time-honoured homosexual traditions, how about we just do whatever the fuck we like.”

Freddie nods, although he still has no idea how to explain to Roger that it’s not like he has very much expertise, that it’s been ages since he’s done this, and certainly never like this: in a beautifully furnished room, with all the time in the world and no fear of discovery. At least none beyond the niggling anxiety that is always at the back of his mind, but even that has been soothed somewhat by the fact that the person that matters most now knows. 

And he’s still here. 

Asking him to do whatever the fuck he likes. 

What he’d really like to do now, is kiss Roger like it’s his last day on earth. 

So that’s what he does, and the thrill when Roger pulls him in by the lapels shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. 

“Have you ever done that,” Freddie mumbles against Roger’s lips. “Kissed a man?”

“Twice.”

“ _Twice?_ ” Freddie pulls back, glaring at Roger. 

“Ooh, are you jealous?” Roger looks delighted at the idea, so Freddie nips at his earlobe as he lets his voice drop a little deeper. 

“Yes,” he growls. “You weren’t allowed.”

That seems to be the incentive Roger needs to divulge a bit more. “Once was at a party. I don’t even remember why or how, I was so pissed. And then that friend of my sister’s who was staying over. I think he had a crush on me. And I… well, it wasn’t bad, but I just didn’t.” Roger’s face turns thoughtful. “He never came round again after that.” 

Freddie can’t help the little twinge of sympathy for the poor boy. Growing up in Truro with a crush on Roger Taylor. Summoning all your courage only to be let down gently with that heartbreaking smile. 

Roger must see what Freddie is thinking, because he runs his thumb over Freddie’s cheek. “I like kissing you,” he says, as if to dispel any doubts Freddie might have about that. One hand comes to land Freddie’s hip, gripping him tightly, and suddenly the back of the sofa is digging into Freddie’s thighs. “I _really_ like kissing you.” 

Freddie had no idea his voice could go that husky. He lets the sofa take a bit more of his weight. 

“Oh really?” It’s meant to be teasing, but that’s not how it comes out. 

Roger steps into his space, almost close enough for their bodies to touch. Almost. 

Just like that, the atmosphere has turned. 

Roger’s other hand is still on his cheek, his little finger resting against Freddie’s pulse point. He must feel it jumping, but the more Freddie tries to control it, the faster it beats. The position they’re in gives Roger another inch on him and the mere fact that Freddie has to tilt his head back to look at his face is making his breath speed up. 

And Roger is taking his sweet time now, watching him, sliding his fingers over his jaw and into his hair. 

When his lips finally press against Freddie’s, he eagerly opens his mouth for more, but Roger doesn’t give him more. Instead, he just brushes lightly against the top lip, then the bottom, an almost ticklish sensation that has Freddie chase after it with his tongue. 

“Apologies in advance,” Roger mumbles, his breath hot against Freddie’s sensitive skin. 

“I know,” Freddie pants. “It’s alright.”

Roger pulls back far enough that he can look at Freddie quizzically. “Know what?”

Freddie might not be firing on all cylinders, but he realises that ‘I know that you’re not that well-endowed’ is probably not a good thing to say right now. Also, Roger has practically pranced around in front of him naked, it doesn’t make any sense for him to say something like that now. “Er, never mind,” he says and slides his tongue into Roger’s mouth for a second, as dirty as he knows how, pleased at how glazed Roger’s eyes become. “You were saying?”

“Oh, I.” Roger takes a few seconds to find his words, Freddie notes smugly. “It’s just that... I might call you baby.” An impish grin appears on his face. “Habit.” 

Freddie didn’t realise up until now that this is something he wants more than life itself. Something that makes it hard for him to remain standing upright if he imagines it a little too vividly. “I’ll forgive you,” he whispers faintly. 

“Hmm, I bet you will.” Roger slides his thigh between Freddie’s legs, and it’s at that moment that Freddie understands every girl that ever let Roger take her home even after he made out with her best friend in a storage closet earlier that night.

The mystery unravels. 

Roger’s leg lightly touches his crotch, inviting him in, and before Freddie can think too much about it, he’s pressed his swollen cock against it. He’s been aroused for so long now, the touch - even through three layers of clothing - makes him gasp. Roger doesn’t pull back in the slightest, unfazed by the unfamiliar shape that’s pressing against him. He slides his lips to a spot right below Freddie’s ear, using the hand in his hair to angle his head, and Freddie almost shivers out of his skin. 

Freddie lets his fingers run over the expanse of Roger’s back, feeling the ridge of his spine and the movement of his muscles through the thin fabric, until Roger pulls back just enough that he can unbutton Freddie’s shirt, pulling it open and off his shoulders as he goes along. He tenses as Roger’s hands stroke over his chest - flat and hairy where he must expect smooth, supple flesh. Then he tenses even more, but for completely different reasons, when Roger thumbs over his nipples. 

Roger gives a satisfied hum, as if he’s running an experiment and taking notes. “Shall we move this to the bedroom,” he asks, his lips ghosting over Freddie’s neck. 

Freddie would have allowed him to take this to the bloody reception when he’s asked like this. “Which one,” he replies breathlessly. 

Roger huffs out a laugh. “Whichever one’s closest.”

His shirt stays back at the sofa as Roger leads him along, a hand low on his back. He sinks down onto the mattress, pulling Roger down along with him, drinking in his kisses. Roger moves lower, mouthing along Freddie’s neck, his collarbone, until he reaches his chest. His tongue laps at one nipple and before Freddie can properly come to terms with that, Roger has moved on to the other one. The tiny licks alternating with cool air have Freddie writhing on the sheets. 

It’s so distracting that he only belatedly notices the hand that Roger has sneaked down to his hip. Freddie holds his breath. He still can’t believe, deep inside himself, that Roger is actually going to do this. He is bound to get to the point where he realises what he’s doing, where he comes to his senses and bails out. Perhaps this will be it. 

“Relax,” Roger whispers against his skin, as if Freddie were the one on the verge of bolting. His hand is wandering all around his legs, hips and stomach, touching him everywhere but where he wants it most. It moves down to his thigh, then curls inwards and come back up, until his thumb is resting in the crease of Freddie’s hip. 

Freddie’s panting now, his hips shifting aimlessly. It’s a bit pathetic, but he can’t stop it. He digs his fingers into the sheets to keep himself from grabbing Roger’s hand and pushing it right where he is straining against his trousers. _Don’t scare him off,_ he thinks. _Whatever you do, don’t scare him off._

Incongruously, Roger chuckles and sucks Freddie’s nipple into his mouth, between his teeth, hard this time. No matter how hard Freddie bites down on his lips, a loud whine still escapes him. 

“Oh wow,” Roger whispers. He’s raised his head from Freddie’s chest to look at him and his eyes have gone dark. 

Freddie flushes under the scrutiny, trying to hide the extent to which he is gone already. But his efforts are blown to smithereens when Roger moves his hand over his cock, a long firm glide all along his length. “Oh _wow_ ,” he repeats a smile growing on his face, as if this were some great prank. 

“Sorry,” Freddie whispers. 

But Roger’s hand just tightens around him, squeezing him so tightly it almost hurts. Then the pressure is gone and light fingers dance over it, circling the head, pressing into that spot right beneath that shoots sparks of lust all through him. He could come from his, he realises. Just from this bit of touching between layers of clothes, and Roger’s fascinated eyes on him and his sensitive nipples cooling on the air. 

And he wants to. He feels like he’s been holding it in for so long, not just for the hour that they’ve been here, or the couple of nights by the lake, but for his whole adult life. But then it would be over, and he has no idea what comes next. So he decides to hold on to that sweet agony for as long as he can. 

He puts his hand over Roger’s and - against the demands of his body yelling at him to stop - pushes it off. Before Roger can question him, he’s reached for his head and pulled him down into another kiss, wet and open-mouthed and full of feverish promises. He pushes at him with his hands and legs until Roger understands and rolls onto his back. 

He’s going to make him feel good, Freddie decides as he crawls over him. He’s going to make Roger feel so good he’ll never look twice at another girl. It’s an ambitious programme, a hopeless one perhaps, but Freddie will be damned if he doesn’t at least try. 

Roger looks amazing against the white of the sheets, his hair spread out around his head, skin flushed rosy and his luminous eyes fixed on Freddie. Excited. _Eager._ His hands are on Freddie’s shoulders, aimlessly stroking and caressing him, as if he can’t stop himself. 

Freddie moves down along the length of his body, not even bothering with taking off Roger’s t-shirt, only stopping when he’s reached the top of his trousers. 

Movement above makes Freddie look up, fearing to see Roger drawing away. But he’s just propped himself up onto his elbows, to better observe everything Freddie does. Freddie licks his lips, more out of nervousness, than anything else, but the way that Roger’s eyes are drawn to his lips makes Freddie do it again, this time while dropping his gaze to Roger’s crotch. 

He rolls onto his side, so he has one hand free to pop open the buttons, and Roger’s cock strains towards him through the thin fabric of his briefs. _He likes this,_ Freddie thinks giddily, as if he still needed evidence that Roger is not put off by him. He tugs the jeans off and presses his lips to the dip right next to Roger’s hip, at the edge of his briefs. He mirrors what Roger’s hand did to him, running his lips along his thighs and stomach, only giving his cock the slightest, almost accidental brushes with his chin or cheek. He loves to feel the tremors going through Roger’s muscles every single time. 

When he finally presses his lips to Roger’s length, a wet spot has formed at the tip and Freddie sucks the saltiness into his mouth. A thud from above him tells him Roger has thrown himself back down on the mattress. Freddie pulls his briefs down, mouth watering at the expectation to finally see Roger hard and leaking for him. 

_For him._

He wraps his lips around the tip, and their simultaneous moans fill the room. Freddie can hardly wrap his head around the fact that Roger is letting him do this, and the heavy weight against his tongue has him straining in his trousers. It’s one thing he’s never been able to deny, even to himself, how much he loves this. Others may think of it as one guy servicing the other. For Freddie, it’s never been that. It’s a reward in itself. 

He resents the traces of scented soap clinging to Roger’s cock, and does his best to lick it off, to get at the taste of the skin underneath. He pulls the briefs down even more, so all of Roger is exposed, and takes him in as far he can. Which isn’t as far as he hoped, because he’s out of practice and Roger in this state is quite a bit bigger than expected. 

But Roger doesn’t seem to mind. He’s constantly moving, not so much shoving his way inside as twisting and grinding. Freddie expects hands on his head holding him down, but Roger seems perfectly happy to let him set his own pace. The stream of low moans and whispered curses is enough to spur Freddie on to go faster and deeper, swirling his tongue whenever he pulls up. _Remembering all his old tricks._ The double punch of pride and shame make him dizzy for a moment, and as he comes up for a deep breath or two, Roger’s hand lands on his cheek. 

Even after all this, he’s terrified that Roger will push him away, that this is the moment when _he’ll_ be let down with a gentle smile. 

“Can you stay… just there…” Roger pants, suggesting with the slightest press of his fingertips what he means. 

Freddie wraps his lips around the head of Roger’s leaking cock again, lapping at the slit a bit. “Like thish,” he asks without pulling away. 

Roger huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, just like this. Hmm, that feels amazing. Fuck, you’re brilliant.” 

The praise makes his face glow with heat and his skin prickle with goosebumps. He presses his cheek into Roger’s hand and gets rewarded with another murmured curse. It’s terrifying, how much he likes this, because now that he’s had a taste, he wouldn’t know how to live without it any more. 

Roger’s hand has moved from Freddie’s face to the base of his own dick, holding it steady for him. It’s somehow both helpful and assertive, and it makes Freddie rub his erection into the bedding. Surreptitiously, he hopes, because that would be really embarrassing, if Roger could see how much this is getting to him. _So_ embarrassing. 

He doubles his efforts, and this time when he slides down, he is stopped by his lips touching Roger’s hand, which is, for some reason he can’t explain, so sexy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

“You’re going to make me come if you go on like this,” Roger warns. 

Freddie hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue around Roger’s cock, wordlessly begging him to follow through on his promise. 

“Like, soon now.” Roger pants, the muscles in his thighs trembling. “Really soon, oh fuck, Freddie.”

He works his lips fast and tight just over the head of Roger’s cock, letting the stream of praise and damnation wash over him. Every single word out of Roger’s mouth is intoxicating, making hot and cold shivers run down Freddie’s limbs. Roger taps the side of his face in a last ditch warning, but Freddie holds on stubbornly, hungry for the bitter taste he’s worked so hard for. He swallows it all down while Roger writhes on the bed, committing every noise, every movement to memory. 

He’s reluctant to let go, unsure what will happen now, but Roger just reaches down and hauls him up, pulling him into a lazy, messy kiss. “I want that,” he announces in between kisses, “every morning,” another kiss, “and every night,” a nip of his upper lip, “for the rest of my life,” a filthy dip of his tongue into Freddie’s mouth, “or until I’m too old to get it up.” 

“Is that a promise,” Freddie murmurs, trying to keep his tone as light and jokey as Roger’s. But the mere thought that Roger is thinking ahead, beyond this trip is almost overwhelming. Even if this is all they ever do, he could live with it. It would be more than he ever expected. 

“Hell yeah.” Roger sucks a patch of skin on his neck, and moves one hand down towards Freddie’s crotch. 

“You don’t have to…” Freddie murmurs and twists away a bit.

“Shh, don’t be silly.” 

This time Roger doesn’t tease. He makes short work of Freddie’s fly and pushes the fabric down just far enough so that he can get a hold of Freddie cock. He slides the foreskin back and forth over the head a few times, and Freddie is so keyed up that it’s almost enough to push him over the brink. He can feel the callouses that have formed on his hands after weeks of recording - the hardened, rough skin shouldn’t feel that good but somehow Freddie can’t get enough. 

Freddie buries his head in the crook of Roger neck, both to be as close to him as he can possibly can, to soak up every atom of him, and to stifle the embarrassing noises coming out of his mouth. He knows they won’t be overheard here, and even if, it’s not forbidden any more, but old habits die hard. 

“Yeah, that’s it, baby.” Roger whispers. The words roll like shock waves through Freddie’s body, and he rocks forward, needy and helpless. “You like it like this?” 

Freddie nods, his burning face rubbing against Roger’s skin. This must be how Roger does it to himself, he realises, and that’s almost more exciting than the touch itself. Perhaps Roger will let him watch at some point. Or make Freddie touch himself while he follows every movement with curious, hungry eyes...

“‘m close,” he whimpers, and Roger speeds up in response. It feels so good his toes curl, and he couldn’t stop now if his life depended on it. 

“Don’t hold back,” Roger whispers, his free arm coming up around Freddie’s waist, holding him tight. “I want you to.” His strong fingers dig almost painfully into his back. “I want _you_!” 

Sweet relief washes through Freddie, so intense that his groans turn into helpless sobs. Roger doesn’t let up, working his cock through it, as if he doesn’t even care about the mess Freddie is making on him. 

Freddie comes to rest still half on top of Roger, breathing in his scent and feeling his chest rise and fall under him. Roger’s fingers trace soft patterns on his naked back, and from time to time he turns his head to press a soft kiss to the crown of Freddie’s head.

 _And he kissed its waves in the moonlight_ Freddie thinks, half-delirious with happiness. Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight.

~~~

Dinner consists of the remains of their provisions. Slices of soggy toast, crumbled into tiny pieces, butter that is worse for the wear from all the cycles of melting and solidifying again, half a package of raisins, and the rest of the Southern Comfort. Oh, and that precious apple, of course. 

Neither of them suggests heading down to the restaurant or looking at the room-service menu. Their budget does have limits. And anyway, there’s something to besmirching the luxurious sheets with their cheap provisions. Something naughty and rebellious: Something that Roger might write a song about. 

“What are you grinning at?” Roger is lying on his stomach, his chin propped up on his hands, and is looking up at Freddie from under his lashes. 

Freddie shakes his head and purses his lips over his teeth. “Nothing, dear.” He reaches out to trail his fingers along the line of Roger’s cheek, and almost stops himself out of habit before he remembers that he is allowed. The reddish skin on his nose has started peeling a bit, and in combination with his bright blue eyes, he looks impossibly boyish. 

Suddenly Freddie realises how selfish he is, dragging Roger into this. The looks and the jeers, the secrecy and the shame. Roger might have caught a glimpse of that, but in his boundless optimism he probably never thought through the consequences. 

Roger turns his head and presses a kiss to Freddie’s palm, and Freddie knows that although it makes him a horrible friend, he will not give this up, no matter how much he should. He doesn’t have that kind of strength or integrity. 

“Hey, talk to me,” Roger says, turning a bit more onto his side, so he can look at Freddie properly. 

He cannot give it up, but at least he has got to say something, doesn’t he? How could he live with himself otherwise? “It’s not going to be easy,” is what he settles on, and then adds, “this.”

Instead of an eye roll or a shrug or a carefree “don’t worry about it”, Roger nods slowly. “I know,” he says. He twists a strand of hair between his fingers for a moment. “Have you thought about-”

“She knows I’m not... I mean, she suspects,” Freddie says before Roger can finish. For some reason, he doesn’t want him to say her name. Not now. Not here. “I’ll tell her as soon as we come back. Not about us,” he adds quickly when Roger’s eyes grow wide. “But that it’s not working out between us. Hasn’t for a while.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your… well, perhaps it is a bit your fault.”

Roger flicks Freddie’s nose playfully and grins at his offended expression. But the levity doesn’t last long. It’s as if everything Freddie has ever wanted is being dangled in front of him, but he doesn’t know how to hold onto it, or how to escape the feeling that he’s making a horrible mistake, that he’s going to pay for every second of happiness he experiences. It’s the same feeling that threatened to swallow him up last night in the tent. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he whispers. “To us.” 

“I won’t allow it,” Roger says, his tone so flat and matter-of-fact that Freddie does a double take. “Look,” he continues. “I know it’s not going to be easy. But then, our five-year-plan is to become sodding rock stars!”

“Five years?” Freddie shrieks before he can think twice about it. 

Roger snorts and presses a giggly kiss to his cheek. “Sorry, it was five years to complete world domination, wasn’t it?” 

His lips on Freddie’s skin are very distracting. “Hmm, that’s more like it.”

“I refuse to believe I can have _that_ , but that it’s somehow inconceivable I could be with you.”

It does sound ridiculous, when put like this. But still. “It’s different,” he mumbles, even as he angles his head to invite Roger to kiss him a bit more. Perhaps trail his lips down to his neck.

To his disappointment, Roger draws back. “Maybe. So what? Times are changing. We’ll figure it out.” There’s that expression on his face, the same one he got when he picked up his rucksack and announced they were heading out into the wilderness. Stubborn. Determined. Daring anyone to tell him otherwise. And he had made it work, in his own way, hadn’t he?

Roger always made things work. Finding the stall at Kensington Market, making rent even in the bleakest of months. Fashion dinner for two from half a packet of crisps, an egg and some leftover curry. 

If anyone can figure things out, it’s him. 

And when did Freddie ever shy back from something when he knew, deep down, that it’s what he wants? All those nights when he was despairing over lyrics and bits of melody going nowhere, because he _knew_ there was a songwriter somewhere inside him. All those months following Smile, gigging with second rate bands until he got his shot. The endless touring and demo recordings until finally they got offered the chance to record an album. 

He deserves this chance. _They_ deserve this chance. 

He’s not going to throw it away. 

~~~

“Did a barbershop open up by the lakeside?” John is eying Freddie’s hair suspiciously as they climb into the van the next day, instantly destroying any hopes they might have had about keeping up pretences of having won the bet. 

“Oh, it’s amazing what you can do with just rainwater and a comb, darling,” Freddie trills, not giving up without at least trying. 

“Of course.” John, on driving duty this time, starts the van and pulls out onto the street. 

“Did you even get there, or did you just wait until we were out of sight before you hitch-hiked to the nearest B&B?” 

Brian’s suspicion is met with a storm of protests. Sun-burnt skin, mosquito bites, and muddied pieces of clothing are given in evidence or their endurance. 

“Jesus Christ, alright, I’m _sorry_ ,” Brian yells while he tries to get Freddie to take his foot out of his face. 

“We _almost_ made it,” Roger says with an apologetic shrug. “We survived thunderstorms, a rabid herd of sheep, and a plague of mosquitoes. But when the spirit of a woman sacrificed to the gods thousands of years ago arose from the lake and prophesied a great spilling of blood… well, you know, we didn’t want to overstay our welcome.”

“Ha!” Brian rubs his hands, looking very pleased with himself. “I knew it. Not made for the great outdoors after all, are you?”

Roger scowls. He doesn’t argue back, but losing to Brian will gnaw at him for a while. 

“Oh, that’s not how it was at all,” Freddie pipes up. “Roger was amazing! He built us shelter, carried me through the rain, navigated through the woods, made fire with rocks and sticks…” 

“...fought off the crazy lake lady with a sword fashioned from a tent-pole,” Deaky throws in.

“It was just too awful for me,” Freddie continues with a dramatic sigh. “I fairly begged poor Rog to get me out of there.”

Roger looks at him with a bemused expression. Freddie winks at him. 

“Did you now?” Brian doesn’t look entirely convinced, but it’s not an unlikely story. 

Freddie nods and turns to Roger, putting a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry for ruining your bet, darling.”

“It’s er. It’s alright,” he says. “You’re fine and that’s all that matters.”

“You still lost,” Brian reminds him.

“I guess,” Roger replies, but now he can shrug it off with a smile. 

When they’re underway and the music from the radio is muffling their voices, Roger leans in close to Freddie. 

“How chivalrous of you,” he whispers. 

“I’m merely returning the favour.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

“Alright then. Thank you.”

“You can thank me later,” Freddie murmurs and risks a quick heated glance at Roger’s lips. “Properly.”

After a second’s breathless pause, Roger laughs and sits back in his seat. “Oh, I will,” he says and the expression his face has Freddie’s cheeks grow warm. 

“What are you two getting up to now,” Brian asks, shooting them a suspicious look through the rearview mirror. 

Freddie widens his eyes dramatically. “Oh, wouldn’t you want to know, dear.” 

“I probably wouldn’t,” Brian grumbles, and Roger flips him off good-naturedly. 

Freddie settles back into his seat. The sun is bathing the landscape in a golden glow once again. Grey stone houses and the occasional flock of sheep pass silently by. It looks just like it did when they first got here. As if nothing had changed. 

Although everything has changed. 

His eyes flicker back to Roger. He looks brilliant, animated, as he is arguing with Brian over his choice of radio station, leaning forward to try and reach the dials himself when his wishes aren’t heeded, then letting himself fall back into his seat with a laugh when Brian wards him off. The sight fills him with a delight so fierce his heart might split with it if he isn’t careful. 

There will be an awkward conversation awaiting him in London, heartbreak and tears and questions he doesn’t want to answer. There will be curious looks and words behind their backs and the strain of forced secrecy. For a long time. Perhaps forever. 

But this is his. And he won’t let it go, ever, for as long as he can hold onto it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, although Freddie here isn't aware of it, two having sex in a hotel room wasn't legal before the year 2000 (because it wasn't considered private). Thank you, @nastally, for sharing your knowledge of anti-gay legislation!
> 
> I'll be mostly offline for a couple of days starting on Thursday, so it might take a while until I unlock or reply to your comments. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and kudoing and commenting! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did 💕

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the side of a hill, a sprinkling of leaves [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27477331) by [nastally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally)




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